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Copyright, IQ13, by 

JOHN L. STODDARD 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 
BOSTON BOOKBINDING CO., CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



FEB I8!9i4 



1 




ICI.A369 04 6 



CONJUGI CARISSIMAE 



PROEM 

They called him mad, — the poor, old man, 

Whose white hair, worn and thin, 

Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played 

His cherished violin, 

Forever drawing to and fro 

O'er silent strings a loosened bow. 

At times on his pathetic face 

A look of perfect rapture shone, 

Intent on some celestial chords, 

Discerned by him alone; 

And sometimes he would smile and pause, 

As if receiving loud applause. 

So, many a humble poet dreams 

His songs will touch the human heart, 

And full of hope his offering lays 

Before the shrine of Art; 

Poor dreamer, may he never know 

That he too draws a silent bow! 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Proem iv 

My Promenade Solitaire i 

Reincarnation 4 

To the " Ring Nebula " 8 

The Waif 10 

The Silver Herons 14 

To the Sphinx 18 

Youth and Age 20 

Sunset at Interlaken 24 

Under the Stars 27 

Corsica 30 

To the Venus of Melos 32 

Mors Leonis 35 

A Story of the Sea 38 

Old Hymn Tunes 43 

Before a Statue of Buddha 45 

The Pillars of Hercules 49 

Friendship 52 

To my Dead Dog 54 

To-day 55 

To the Countess Guiccioli 57 

The Death of Antoninus Pius 59 

The Butterfly 62 

After the Storm 66 

Fallen 68 

"yEQUANIMITAS " 72 

Dreamland 73 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

One More 264 

Under the Plane Tree 266 

" Conjugi Carissimae " - . . 268 

The Pagan Past 271 

Retirement 273 

In November 275 

The Call of the Blood 277 

The Cascade 279 

Bird Slaughter 282 

The Iron Crown 286 

Contrasts 290 

In my Pergola 292 

Evanescence 294 

Lake Como in Autumn 296 

To the Portrait of Napoleon . . 298 

Day and Night . 300 

Passing and Permanent 302 

Tripoli 304 

Influence 311 

Leo 3 T 3 

Farewell to the Faun 317 

Wakefulness 321 

Villa Pliniana 323 

Point Balbianello 327 

At Lenno 332 

PERSONALLY ADDRESSED 

Lines Written for a Golden Wedding . . . 337 

To the Walking-Stick of my Dead Friend . 339 

To C 34i 

To Mr. and Mrs. A. H. S 342 

To M. C. of Athens 344 



CONTENTS ix 

PAGE 

To J. B 345 

To M. P 346 

To Miss Mary C. Low 347 

In Memoriam. G. M. M 348 

To Hon. Charles M. Dickinson 350 

To J. C. Y 352 

To Hon. Jesse Holdom 353 

TRANSLATIONS 

The Kiss to the Flag 359 

Emily's Grave 365 

Serenade to Ninon 367 

The Red Tyrolean Eagle 368 

Andreas Hofer 370 

Stream and Sea 372 



Rachel 375 



MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE 

Up and down in my garden fair, 

Under the trellis where grapes will bloom, 

With the breath of violets in the air, 

As pallid Winter for Spring makes room, 

I walk and ponder, free from care, 

In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire. 



Back and forth in the checkered shade 

Traced by the lattice that holds the vine, 

With the glory of snow-capped crests displayed 

On the sapphire sky in a billowy line, 

I stroll, and ask what can compare 

With the charm of my Promenade Solitaire. 



To and fro 'neath the nascent green 
Which clambers over its slender frame, 
With white peaks lighting up the scene, 
As snowfields glow with the sunset flame, 
I saunter, halting here and there 
For the view from my Promenade Solitaire. 



MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE" 

In and out through the silence sweet, 
Plash of fountain and song of bird 
Are the only sounds in my lov'd retreat 
By which the air is ever stirred; 
It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer. 
So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire. 

Onward rushes the world without, 

But the breeze which over my garden steals 

Brings from it merely a distant shout 

Or the echo light of passing wheels ; 

In its din and drive I have now no share, 

As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire. 

Am I dead to the world, that I thus disdain 
Its moil and toil in the prime of life, 
When perhaps a score of years remain 
To win more gold, in its selfish strife? 
Am I foolish to choose the purer air 
Of my glorious Promenade Solitaire? 

Ah no! From my mountain-girdled height 
I watch the game of the world go on, 
And note the course of the bitter fight, 
And what is lost and what is won; 
And I judge of it better here than there, 
As I gaze from my Promenade Solitaire. 



MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE" 

It is ever the same old tale of greed, 

Of robbing and killing the weaker race, 

Of the word proved false by the cruel deed, 

Of the slanderous tongue with the friendly face ; 

'Tis enough to make one's heart despair 

Even here in my Promenade Solitaire. 

They cheer, and struggle, and beat the air 
With many a stroke and thrust intense, 
And urge each other to do and dare, 
To gain some good they deem immense; 
But they look like ants contending there 
From the height of my Promenade Solitaire. 

Backward and forward they run and crawl, 
Houses and treasures they heap up high, 
Hither and thither their booty haul, . . . 
Then suddenly drop in their tracks and die! 
For few are wise enough to repair 
In time to a Promenade Solitaire. 



Meantime the Earth speeds on through space, 

As the sun for a million years hath steered, 

And, an eon hence, the entire race 

Will have played its part and disappeared; 

But what will the lifeless planet care, 

As it follows its Promenade Solitaire? 



REINCARNATION 

I know not how, I know not where, 
But from my own heart's mystic lore 
I feel that I have breathed this air, 
And walked this earth before; 



And that in this, its latest form 
My old-time spirit once more strives, 
As it has fought through many a storm 
In past, forgotten lives. 



Not inexperienced did my soul 
This incarnation's threshold tread; 
Not recordless has proved the scroll 
It brought back from the dead. 



To certain, special lines of thought 
My mind intuitively tends, 
And old affinities have brought 
Not new, but ancient friends. 



REINCARNATION 

What thrilled me in a previous state 
Rekindles here its ancient flame; 
What I by instinct love and hate 
I knew before I came; 

And lands, of which in youth I dreamed 
And read, heart-moved, and longed to see, 
When really visited, have seemed 
Not strange but known to me. 

When Mozart, still a child, untaught, 
Ran joyous to the silent keys, 
And with inspired fingers wrought 
Majestic harmonies, 

There fell upon his psychic ear 
Faint echoes of a music known 
Before his natal advent here, 
In former lives outgrown. 

In many a dumb brute's wistful eyes 
A dawning human soul aspires, 
For thus from lower forms we rise, — 
Ourselves our spirits' sires. 

Full many a thought that thrills my breast 
Is fruit resulting from a seed 
Sown elsewhere, — on my soul impressed 
By many an arduous deed ; 



REINCARNATION 

Full many a fetter which hath lamed 
My struggling spirit's upward flight 
Was once by that same spirit framed, 
When further from the Light; 

With justice, therefore, comes the pain 
That o'er the tortured world extends; 
And hopeful is the lessening stain, 
As each life-cycle ends. 

No changeless, endless states await 
The good and evil souls set free; 
Each grave is a successive gate 
In immortality. 

Too long this mighty truth hath slept 
Among the darkened souls of men, — 
"Ye cannot see God's face, except 
Ye shall be born again." 

The God-like Christs and Buddhas yearn, 
However high their spirits' stage, 
For man's salvation to return, 
As Saviour or as Sage. 

On our benighted, groping minds 
Their noble precepts, star-like, shine ; 
Each soul, that wisely seeks them, finds 
The truths that are divine. 



REINCARNATION 

Misunderstood and vilified, 
Their aims and motives scarcely known, 
How many of these Saints have died, 
Rejected by their own! 

Yet, though their followers miss the way, 
In spite of precept and of prayer, 
And lead unnumbered souls astray, 
Committed to their care, 

Upon the lofty spirit-plane, 
Where all lies open to their sight, 
The Masters know that not in vain 
They left the Hills of Light. 



TO THE "RING NEBULA" 

O pallid spectre of the midnight skies, 

Whose phantom features in the dome of Night 

Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes, 

Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight; 

On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire, 

From thee, whose glories it would fain admire, 

Must vision, baffled, in despair retire ! 

What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame? 

Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolve 

In myriad suns that constellations frame, 

Around which life-blest satellites revolve, 

Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep 

In dim procession o'er the azure steep, 

As white-winged caravans the desert sweep ? 

Or art thou still an incandescent mass, 
Acquiring form as hostile forces urge, 
Through whose vast length continuous lightnings 

pass, 
As to and fro its fiery billows surge? 
Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife, 



TO THE "RING NEBULA" c 

Where now chaotic anarchy is rife, 
Shall yet become the fair abodes of life? 

We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays 
Which hither on Light's winged coursers come 
From fires which ages since first lit their blaze, 
One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb; 
How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearn 
Of life on yonder glittering orbs to learn, 
We read no message, and could none return! 

Yet this we know : — yon ring of spectral light, 
Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe, 
Can ne'er escape in its majestic might 
The firm control of omnipresent law; 
This mote descending to its bounden place, 
Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace, 
Alike obey the Power pervading space. 



THE WAIF 

I sit in my luxurious chair; 
Soft rugs caress my slippered feet; 
Within, a balmy, summer air; 
Without, a wintry storm of .sleet. 

A favorite book is in my hands, 
A thousand others line the walls; 
Some souvenir of distant lands 
In every nook the Past recalls. 

Upon a Turkish tabouret 
In Dresden cups of peerless blue 
Gleams on a pretty Cashmere tray 
The fragrant Mocha's ebon hue. 

Two dainty hands prepare the draught, 
While loving glances meet my own; 
Two lips repeat (the coffee quaffed), 
" To-night 'tis sweet to be alone." 

Hark! in the court my faithful hound 
Breaks rudely on our tete-a-tete; 



THE WAIF ii 

Too well I understand that sound! 
A mendicant is at my gate. 

Admit him? Yes; for none shall say- 
That he who seeks in want my door 
Is ever harshly turned away; 
His plea is heard, if nothing more. 

I leave my comforts with a sigh, 
And, passing to the outer hall, 
Behold a wanderer doomed to die, — 
So ill, I look to see him fall. 

I know his story ere he speaks ; 
And listening to his labored breath, 
I trace, with tears upon my cheeks, 
His long and hopeless fight with death. 

A poor, storm-beaten, lonely waif, 
Lured southward from a colder clime 
By hope and that unfailing faith 
That health will come again in time ! 

Alas! too late; the dread disease 
Hath fixed its roots too firmly there; 
And now sick, friendless, at my knees, 
He pours forth his heart-breaking prayer. 



12 THE WAIF 

What are his needs? Before all, food! 
Hot soup, bread, wine, until at last 
A sense of human brotherhood 
Obliterates his cruel past; 

Yet not for long; for though well-fed, 
With warmer garments than before, 
He hath no place to lay his head, 
On turning from my friendly door. 

I slip some silver in his hand, 
('Twill purchase shelter for the night,) 
Then, silent and remorseful, stand 
To watch his bent form out of sight. 

On, on he goes through snow and sleet, 
With nothing more of warmth and cheer ! 
From such a home to such a street ! 
Ah, should I not have kept him here? 

My room is no less bright and warm, 
But all its charm and joy have fled; 
That lonely figure in the storm 
Leaves both our hearts uncomforted. 

For this is but one tiny wave 

In life's vast, shoreless sea of woe, — 



THE WAIF *.? 

One note in man's hoarse cry to save, 
Resounding o'er its ebb and flow; 

I ask myself in blank dismay, — 
Ought I my little wealth to own? 
Yet, should I give it all away, 
'Twere but a drop to ocean thrown! 

Great God! if what I dimly see, 
In this small section of mankind, 
Of pain and want and misery, 
Can thus bring anguish to my mind, 

How canst Thou view the awful whole, 
As our ensanguined planet rolls 
From unknown source to unknown goal 
Its freight of suffering human souls? 

Permitted pain ! — the first and last 
Of riddles that we strive to solve, 
More poignant ever, and more vast, 
As man's mentalities evolve, 

I hear thy victims' ceaseless wails, 
I view the path my race hath trod, 
And at the sight my spirit quails, 
And cries in agony to God! 



THE SILVER HERONS 

Within a home for captive beasts 
Whose world had dwindled to a cage, 
I noted in their mournful eyes 
Such resignation, fear, and rage, 
I longed at once to set them free, 
And send them over land and sea 
To live again in liberty. 

For them no more the mountain range, 

The desert vast, the jungle's lair! 

Their meaner fate through grated bars 

To feel the public's hateful stare; 

Poor prisoners! doomed henceforth to pace 

With stinted strides a narrow space, 

And, daily, gaping crowds to face. 

At length I stood before a cage, 
Where, guarded by a loftier screen, 
Were artificial rocks, and pools, 
And strips of vegetation green; 
There, perched upon some rocky mound, 
Or crouching on the miry ground, 
A flock of waterfowl I found. 



THE SILVER HERONS 15 

Storks, poised upon a single leg, 
Stood dreaming of the eternal Nile, — 
The Mecca of their winter flight, 
When lured by Egypt's sunny smile ; 
While ducks and geese, in gabbling mood, 
Explored the muddy pond for food, 
Attended by their noisy brood. 

Their keeper brought their evening meal; 
And instantly on broad-webbed feet, 
And stilt-like legs, and flapping wings, 
The feathered bipeds rushed to greet, 
With snaps and duckings of delight, 
The joyful, ever-welcome sight 
Of supper at the approach of night. 

Yet all came not ! Two stood apart, 
With plumage like fresh-fallen snow, — 
Two " Silver Herons," of a race 
As pure and fine as earth can show ; 
Amid the tumult that was rife, 
These loathed the others' greedy strife, 
And looked disgusted with their life. 

With closed eyes, shrinking from the mass, 
They seemed, in thought, removed as far 
From all their coarse environment 
As sun is separate from star ! 



16 THE SILVER HERONS 

The very picture of disdain, 

From all such gorging, it was plain, 

They had determined to refrain. 

The keeper murmured with reproach, — ■ 
" Those Silver Herons are too proud ! 
Why should they not partake of food 
Together with the common crowd? 
They eat a little from my hand, 
But would prefer to starve, than stand 
Besmeared by that uncleanly band. 

" A month hence, neither will be here ; 
For both will grieve themselves to death; 
And when one falls, its mate expires 
.With scarcely an additional breath; 
And, should there come another pair, 
In their turn they the fate will share 
Of those two herons standing: there." 



*& 



Poor hapless birds ! I see them yet, 
Alone and starving in their pride, — 
Their glittering plumage still intact, 
While standing bravely side by side ; 
And, although put to hunger's test, 
Continuing mutely to protest 
Against defilement with the rest. 



THE SILVER HERONS 17 

O Silver Herons, teach mankind 
To cherish thus a stainless name ! 
To shun the vile, ignoble crowd, 
Preferring death to smirch and shame! 
A foul, unfriendly mob to brave, 
And go, unspotted, to the grave, 
Is not to lose one's life, but save. 



TO THE SPHINX 

O sleepless Sphinx! 

Thy sadly patient eyes, 
Forever gazing o'er the shifting sands, 
Have watched Earth's countless dynasties arise, 
Stalk forth like spectres waving gory hands, 
Then fade away with scarce a lasting trace 
To mark the secret of their dwelling place : 

O sleepless Sphinx! 

O changeless Sphinx! 

The very dawn of Time 
Beheld thee sculptured from the living rock! 
Still wears thy face its primal look sublime, 
Surviving all the hoary ages' shock: 
Still royal art thou in thy proud repose, 
As when the sun on tuneful Memnon rose, 

O changeless Sphinx! 

O voiceless Sphinx! 

Thy solemn lips are dumb; 
Time's awful secrets lie within thy breast; 
Age follows age ; revering pilgrims come 



TO THE SPHINX 19 

From every clime to urge the same request, — 
That thou wilt speak! Poor creatures of a day, 
In calm disdain thou seest them die away : 
O voiceless Sphinx! 

Majestic Sphinx! 

Thou crouchest by a sea 
Whose fawn-hued wavelets clasp thy buried feet : 
Whose desert-surface, petrified like thee, 
Gleams white with sails of many an Arab fleet: 
Whose tawny billows, surging with the storm, 
Break on thy flanks, and overleap thy form; 

Majestic Sphinx! 

Eternal Sphinx! 

The Pyramids are thine; 
Their giant summits guard thee night and day, 
On thee they look when stars in splendor shine, 
Or while around their crests the sunbeams play: 
Thine own coevals, who with thee remain 
Colossal Genii of the boundless plain! 

Eternal Sphinx! 



YOUTH AND AGE 

" I will gain a fortune," the young man cried; 

" For Gold by the world is deified ; 

Hence, whether the means be foul or fair, 

I will make myself a millionaire, 

My single talent shall grow to ten ! " 

But an old man smiled, and asked " And then? 

" A peerless beauty," the young man said, 
" Shall be the woman I choose to wed. 
And men shall envy me my prize, 
And women scan her with jealous eyes; " 
And he looked annoyed, when once again 
The old man smiled, and asked " And then ? " 

" I will build," he answered, " a home so fine, 
That kings in their castles shall covet mine; 
The rarest pictures shall clothe its walls, 
And statues stand in its stately halls ; 
It shall lack no luxury known to men ; " 
But still the old man asked " And then? " 

" I will play a role in Church or State 
That all mankind shall acknowledge great; 



YOUTH AND AGE 21 

I will win at last such brilliant fame, 
That distant lands shall know my name, 
For I can wield both sword and pen ; " 
But again the old man asked " And then? " 

" Is your heart a stone," the young man cried, 

" Hath all ambition within you died, 

That nothing seems to you worth while ? 

What mean you by that sphinx-like smile ? 

Of what are you secretly, thinking, when 

You utter those mournful words, — ' And then?' " 

Gently the old man said " O youth, 
The words I have spoken veil a truth 
Learned only through the lapse of years, 
And first discerned through a mist of tears : 
For youth is full of illusions fair 
Which manhood sees dissolve in air. 

" Your millions will not make you blest, 
They will rob you, instead, of peace and rest : 
Your beautiful wife may be the prey 
Of a treacherous friend or a skilled roue ; 
And the splendid palace that you crave 
Will make you Society's gilded slave. 

' 'Tis a weary road to political fame ; 
Its price you must often pay in shame ; 



22 YOUTH AND AGE 

And the world-known name for which you yearn 
On a bulletin board or a funeral urn, 
Is scarcely worth the toil and strife 
Which poison the peaceful joys of life. 

" For be you ever so wise and good, 
By some you will be misunderstood, 
And fame will bring you envious foes 
To spoil for you many a night's repose ; 
And alas ! as your pathway upward tends, 
You will find self-interest in your friends ! 

" The loudest shout of the mob's applause 
Will die out after a moment's pause; 
And what is the greatest public praise 
To one whose form in the earth decays ? 
The cruel world will always laugh 
At the fulsome lie of an epitaph. 

" But Spring recks not of Winter's snow, 
And you will not believe, I know, 
That all those boons that tempt your powers, 
If gained, will be like fragile flowers, 
Whose freshness wilts in the fevered hand, 
Like roses dropped on the desert sand. 

" And much of the work you deem sublime 
Is like the grain of pink-hued lime 



YOUTH AND AGE 23 

Which once was a coral insect's shell, 
But now is a microscopic cell. 
Entombed with countless billions more 
In a lonely reef on an unknown shore ! " 

" Alas ! " said the youth, — and his eyes were wet, — 

" Is old age merely a vain regret, 

The retrospect of wasted years, 

Of false ideals and lost careers? 

Advise me! What must I reject, 

And what for my permanent good select ? " 

" Beloved youth," the old man said, 
" All is not vain, be comforted ! 
Seek not thine own, but others' joy; 
Ring true, like gold without alloy; 
Waste not thy time in asking Why, 
Or Whence, or Whither when we die; 

" The actual world, the present hours 

Will give enough to tax thy powers; 

At no clear duty hesitate ; 

Serve well thy neighbor and the State; 

So shalt thou add thy tiny form 

To bind the reef that breasts the storm ! " 



SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN 

The sun is low; 

Yon peak of snow 
Is reddening 'neath the sunset glow; 

The rosy light 

Makes richly bright 
The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white. 

From vales that sleep 

Night's shadows creep 
To take possession of the steep ; 

While, as they rise, 

The western skies 
Seem loath to leave so fair a prize. 

The light of day 

Still loves to stay 
And round that pearly summit play; 

How fair a sight 

That realm of light, 
Contended for by Day and Night! 



SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN 25 

Now fainter shines, 

As Day declines, 
The lustrous height which he resigns; 

The shadows gain 

Th' illumined plane ; 
The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain. 

When daylight dies, 

The azure skies 
Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes, 

Which watch with grace 

From depths of space 
The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face. 

And when the Light 

Hath put to flight 
Night's shadows from each Alpine height, 

Along the skies 

It quickly flies, 
To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes. 

The timid flush 

And rosy blush 
Which then from brow to bosom rush, 

Are pure and fair 

Beyond compare, 
Resplendent in the crystal air. 



26 SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN 

And thus alway 

By night and day 
Her varying suitors homage pay; 

And tinged with rose, 

Or white with snows, 
The same fair, radiant form she shows. 



UNDER THE STARS 

The breath of summer stirs the trees, 
A thousand roses round me bloom, 
Whose saffron petals give the breeze 
A wealth of exquisite perfume, 
As, climbing high, with tendrils bold, 
They clothe the walls with cups of gold. 

No sound disturbs the silence sweet, 
The weary birds have sunk to rest ; 
For where the snow and sunset meet 
The light is fading in the west, 
And now the carking cares of day 
Slip lightly from my heart away. 

The emptiness of social strife, 

The pettiness of human souls, 

The cheap frivolities of life, 

The keen pursuit of paltry goals, — 

How small they seem beneath the dome 

That shelters my Tyrolean home! 



28 UNDER THE STARS 

A shining mote, our tiny earth 
No furrow leaves in shoreless space! 
What is one brief existence worth, 
Which disappears, and leaves no trace? 
That silent, star-strewn vault survives 
The dawns and dusks of countless lives. 

Why grieve, dear heart? Oblivion deep 
Will soon enshroud both friend and foe, 
And those who laugh and those who weep 
Must join the hosts of long ago, 
Whose transient hours of smiles and tears 
Make up earth's wilderness of years. 

The sunset's glowing embers die, 
The snow-peaks lose their crimson hue, 
Through deepening shades the ruddy sky 
Burns slowly down to darkest blue, 
Wherein a million worlds of light 
Announce the coming of the night. 

I gaze, and slowly my despair 

At human wretchedness and crime 

Gives place to hopes and visions fair, — 

So much may be evolved by time ! 

So much may yet men's souls surprise 

Beneath the splendor of God's skies! 



UNDER THE STARS 

Some day, somewhere, in realms afar 
His light may make all problems plain, 
And justice on some happier star 
May recompense this planet's pain, 
And earth's bleak Golgothas of woe 
Grow lovely in life's afterglow. 



29 



CORSICA 

In Bordighera's groves of palm 
I linger at the close of day, 
And watch, beyond the ocean's cairn, 
A range of mountains far away. 

Their snowy summits, white and cold, 
Flush crimson like a tinted shell, 
As sinks the sun in clouds of gold 
Behind the peaks of Esterel. 

No unsubstantial shapes are they, — 
The offspring of the mist and sea; 
No splendid vision of Cathay, 
Recalled in dreamful revery; 

Their solid bastions, — towering high 
Though rooted in earth's primal plan, — 
Proclaim to every passer by 
The cradle of the Corsican. 

What martial soul there found rebirth, 
When on those cliffs, then scarcely known, 



CORSICA 3I 

There once more visited the earth 
The spirit called Napoleon? 

Three islands, like the sister Fates, 
His life-thread wove upon their loom 
From fair Ajaccio's silvered gates 
To Saint Helena's mournful tomb; — 

The first, his birthplace; whence appeared 
His baleful star with lurid glow; 
Next, Elba, where the world still feared 
The fugitive from Fontainebleau ; 

Last, England's lonely prison-block, 
Grim fragment 'neath a tropic sky, 
Where, like Prometheus on his rock, 
The captive Caesar came to die. 

O Corsica, sublimely wild 
And riven by the winds and waves, 
Thy fame is deathless from thy child, 
Whose glory filled a million graves. 



TO THE VENUS OF MELOS 

O goddess of that Grecian isle 

Whose shores the blue JEgean laves, 

Whose cliffs repeat with answering smile 
Their features in its sun-kissed waves! 

An exile from thy native place, 

We view thee in a northern clime; 

Yet mark on thy majestic face 

A glory still undimmed by Time. 

Through those calm lips, proud goddess, speak! 

Portray to us thy gorgeous fane, 
Where Melian lovers thronged to seek 

Thine aid, Love's paradise to gain; 

And where, as in the saffron east, 

Day's jewelled gates were open flung, 

With stately pomp the attendant priest 

Drew back the veil before thee hung; 

And when the daring kiss of morn, 

Empurpling, made thy charms more fair, 



TO THE VENUS OF MELOS 33 

Sweet strains from unseen minstrels borne 
Awoke from dreams the perfumed air. 

Vouchsafe at last our minds to free 

From doubts pertaining to thy charms, — 

The meaning of thy bended knee, 

The secret of thy vanished arms. 

Wast thou in truth conjoined with Mars? 

Did thy fair hands his shield embrace, 
The surface of whose golden bars 

Grew lovely from thy mirrored face? 

Or was it some bright scroll of fame 

Thus poised on thine extended knee, 

Upon which thou didst trace the name 
Of that fierce god so dear to thee? 

Whate'er thou hadst, no mere delight 

Was thine the glittering prize to hold; 

Not thine the form that met thy sight, 
Replying from the burnished gold; 

Unmindful what thy hands retained, 
Thy gaze is fixed beyond, above ; 

Some dearer object held enchained 
The goddess of immortal love. 



34 TO THE VENUS OF MELOS 

We mark the motion of thine eyes, 

And smile; for, heldst thou shield or scroll, 
A tender love-glance we surprise, 

That tells the secret of thy soul. 



MORS LEONIS 

When o'er the aged lion steals 
The instinct of approaching death, 
Whose numbing grasp he vaguely feels 
In trembling limbs and labored breath, 
He shuns the garish light of day, 
And leaving mate and whelps at play, 
In mournful silence creeps away. 

From bush to bush, by devious trails, 
He drags himself from hill to hill, 
And, as his old strength slowly fails, 
Drinks long at many a mountain rill, 
Until he gains, with stifled moan, 
A height, to hated man unknown, 
Where he may die, at least alone. 

Relaxing now his mighty claws, 
He lies, half shrouded by his mane, 
His grand head resting on his paws, 
And heeding little save his pain, 
As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep, 
The film of death begins to creep, — 
The prelude to eternal sleep. 



36 MORS LEONIS 

As Caesar, reeling 'neath the stroke 
And dagger-thrust of many a friend, 
Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak, 
To meet, unseen, his tragic end, 
So hath this desert-monarch tried 
With noble dignity to hide 
From others how and where he died. 

And now his spirit is serene; 
For here no stranger can intrude 
To view this last, pathetic scene, 
Or mar its sombre solitude ; 
Prone on the lonely mountain crest, 
Confronting the resplendent west, 
The dying lion sinks to rest. 

Proud king of beasts! thy death should teach 

Mankind the cheapness of display; 

More eloquent than human speech, 

Thy grand example shows the way 

To pass from life, unheard, unseen, 

And with composed, majestic mien 

Death's awful sacredness to screen. 

Nay, more! thou didst select a place 
Where, unobserved, thy form could rest, 
Till Mother Earth with fond embrace 
Should hide it in her ample breast; 



MORS LEONIS 37 

Like Moses in lone Nebo's land, 
Thou hast been sepulchred in sand, 
Unseen by eye, untouched by hand. 

No pompous tomb shall ever rise 
Above thy lonely, sun-bleached frame; 
No epitaph of well-turned lies 
Shall be inscribed beneath thy name ; 
No bells for thee a dirge shall ring, 
No choir beside thy grave shall sing, 
Yet hast thou perished like a king! 



A STORY OF THE SEA 

Were you ever told the legend old 

Of the birth of storms at sea ? 

You should hear the tale in a Channel gale, 

As happened once to me, 

On a fearful night off Fastnet Light, 

With Ireland on our lee. 



In the good old days, which poets praise 

As the best that man hath seen, 

The storm-king's hand might smite the land, 

But the sea remained serene; 

Blow east, blow west, its sun-kissed breast 

Kept ever its tranquil sheen. 

Not a single trace came o'er its face 

Of the storms that raged elsewhere ; 

No misty screen e'er crept between 

The sun and its image there ; 

And its depths at night were gemmed with light 

By stars in the crystal air. 



A STORY OF THE SEA 39 

The fisherman laughed in his little craft, 

If a landsman felt alarm, 

For never did gale a ship assail, 

Or a sailor suffer harm ; 

There was nothing to fear, for the skies were clear, 

And the ocean always calm. 

But on the shore, where more and more 

The human race increased, 

There were cold and heat, and snow and sleet, 

And troubles never ceased ; 

For wind and rain beat down the grain, 

And the plague slew man and beast. 

And even worse was the moral curse, 

That came like a deadly blight 

Through men who seized whate'er they pleased, 

On the plea that might makes right, 

Till the fatal seed of selfish greed 

Made life a bitter fight. 

Hence many sighed, as they watched the tide 

Glide out to the sunset sea, 

And longed to go with its gentle flow 

To where they hoped might be 

A realm of peace, where sorrows cease, 

And souls from pain are free. 



40 A STORY OF THE SEA 

At last they said, — " We were better dead, 
Than endure this anguish more ; 
Let us seek relief from care and grief 
Far out from the storm-swept shore ; 
The sea can bring no sadder thing 
Than the life we lived before." 



So a ship was framed, which they fondly named 

" The Peace of the Human Mind," 

And the weary band soon left the land 

And its ceaseless strife behind; 

But unattained the goal remained 

They had so longed to find. 

For the souls that came were quite the same 
As they were before they sailed; 
And, as pride and hate did not abate, 
The hope of the voyagers failed ; 
And, facing alone the great Unknown, 
The bravest spirits quailed. 

Meanwhile the ship began to dip, 

And labored to and fro, 

For the sea, though fair, could no more bear 

This load of human woe ; 

And at last the boat, with all afloat, 

Sank helplessly below. 



A STORY OF THE SEA 41 

Down, down it swirled to the nether world; 

While up from the riven main 

Came the gurgling sound of those who drowned, 

As the vortex closed again; 

The sea surged back to its wonted track; 

Once more 'twas a sun-lit plain ! 

But soon men saw, with deepening awe, 

That sea grow white with spray ; 

Its brilliant hue was changed from blue 

To a deathlike, leaden gray; 

And a sullen roar approached the shore 

Whence the ship had sailed away. 

Huge waves rolled in with frightful din, 

And spat out hissing foam, 

And smote the sand along the strand, 

And swept off many a home ; 

And lightnings flashed and thunder crashed 

From heaven's ink-black dome. 

" Alas ! " they cried, " that our brothers died 

In the depths of the sea of peace ; 

They have brought unrest to its quiet breast, 

Which nevermore shall cease ; 

For the peace it lost we must pay the cost ; 

And behold ! our woes increase ! " 



4* A STORY OF THE SEA 

In truth, since then how many men 
Have learned that the mighty deep 
Can heave and swell to a seething hell, 
When storms its surface sweep ! 
For its calm hath fled, and countless dead 
Are the spoils it loves to heap. 

But at its best, when it lies at rest 

On a cloudless summer day, 

And, tiger-like, forbears to strike, 

But, sated, basks at play, 

One seems to hear, with the psychic ear, 

Its murmuring wavelets say, — 

" No real relief from care and grief 

Is found o'er distant waves; 

The men who sail to find it, fail, 

And sink to lonely graves; 

In the firm control of man's own soul 

Is alone the peace he craves." 



OLD HYMN-TUNES 

Dear, old-time tunes of prayer and praise, 
Heard first beside my mother's knee, 
Your music on my spirit lays 
A spell from which I should be free, 
If lapse of time gave liberty. 

I listen, and the crowded years 
Fade, dream-like, from my life, and lo! 
I find my eyelids wet with tears, — 
So much I loved, so well I know 
Those plaintive airs of long ago! 

They tell me of my vanished youth, 
Of faith in what so flawless seemed, 
Before the painful quest of truth 
Had proved how much I then esteemed 
Was other than I fondly dreamed ! 

They make my childhood live again ; 

And life's fair dawn grows once more bright, 

While listening to the sweet refrain, 

Sung in the Sabbath's waning light, — 

" Glory to Thee, my God, this night! " 



44 OLD HYMN-TUNES 

My mother's voice, so pure and strong, 

My father's flute of silvery tone, 

The little household's strength of song, 

The childish treble of my own, — 

I hear them once more, but . . . alone! 

Sweet obligato to some hymn 

Whose words those vanished tones recall, 

Float o'er me, when earth's scenes grow dim, 

And life's last, lingering echoes fall, 

Till silence settles over all! - 



BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA 

O Buddha, of the mystic smile 
And downcast, dreamful eyes, 
To whom unnumbered sacred shrines 
And gilded statues rise, 

Whose fanes are filled with worshippers, 
Whose hallowed name is sung 
By myriads of the human race 
In every Eastern tongue, 

What means thy sweet serenity? 
Our planet, as it rolls, 
Sweeps through the starry universe 
A mass of burdened souls, 

Still agonized and pitiful, 
Despite the countless years 
That man has spent in wandering 
Through paths of blood and tears! 

O Lord of love and sympathy 
For all created life, 



46 BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA 

How canst thou view thus placidly 
The world's incessant strife, 

The misery and massacre 
Of war's destructive train, 
The martyrdom of animals, 
The tragedy of pain, 

The infamous brutalities 
To helpless children shown, 
The pathos of whose joyless lives 
Might melt a heart of stone ? 

Preeminently merciful, 
Does not thy spirit long 
To guard from inhumanity 
The weak against the strong? 

Thou biddest us deal tenderly 
With every breathing thing, — 
The horse that drags the heavy load, 
The bird upon the wing, 

The flocks along the riverside, 
The cattle on the lea, 
And every living denizen 
Of earth and air and sea ; 



BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA 47 

Yet daily in the shambles 
A sea of blood is spilled, 
And man is nourished chiefly 
From beasts that he has killed! 

And hunters still find happiness 
In seeing, red with wounds, 
A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes, 
Dragged down by yelping hounds! 

What is the real significance 
Of thine unchanging smile? 
Hast thou the secret consciousness 
That grief is not worth while ? 

That sorrow is the consequence 
Of former lives of sin, — 
The spur that goads us on and up 
A nobler life to win ? 

That pain is as impermanent 
As shadows on the hills, 
And that Nirvana's blessedness 
Will cure all mortal ills? 

But agony is agony, 
And small is the relief 
If, measured with eternity, 
Life's anguish be but brief. 



48 BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA 

To hearts that break with misery, 
To every tortured frame 
The present pain is paramount, 
Nirvana but a name. 

Moreover, why should former lives 
Bequeath their weight of woe, 
If with it comes no memory 
To guide us, as we go ? 

If o'er the dark, prenatal void 
No mental bridge be cast, 
No thread, however frail, to link 
The present to the past? 

Still silent and dispassionate! 
Ah, would that I might find 
The key to the serenity 
That fills thy lofty mind ! 

Thou hast a joy we do not feel, 
A light we cannot see ; 
Injustice, sin, and wretchedness 
No longer sadden thee; 

No doubt to thy sublimer gaze 
Life's mystery grows plain, 
As finally full recompense 
Atones for earthly pain. 



THE PILLARS OF HERCULES 

Here ends at last the Inland Sea ! 

Still seems its outlet, as of yore, 

The anteroom of Mystery, 

As, through its westward-facing door, 

I see the vast Atlantic lie 

In splendor 'neath a sunset sky. 



Above its distant, glittering rim 
Streams o'er the waves a flood of gold, 
To gild the mountains, bare and grim, 
Which guard this exit, as of old, — 
The sombre sentries of two seas, 
The Pillars reared by Hercules; — 



Gibraltar, — on the northern shore, 
By conquering Moors once proudly trod, — 
And, to the south a league or more, 
Huge Abyla, the " Mount of God ", 
Whence burdened Atlas watched with ease 
The Gardens of Hesperides. 



S o THE PILLARS OF HERCULES 

How many slow-paced centuries passed, 
Before brave sailors dared to creep 
Beyond the gloom these monsters cast, 
And venture on the unknown deep, 
At last resolving to defy 
The " God-established " termini ! 



Yet no fierce gods opposed their path ; 
No lurid bolt or arrow sped 
To crush them with celestial wrath, 
And number them among the dead ; 
The dreadful Pillars proved as tame 
As other rocks of lesser fame. 

Hence, when before them stretched the sea, 
Majestic, limitless and clear, 
A rapturous sense of being free 
Dispelled all vestiges of fear 
The longed-for ocean to explore 
From pole to pole, from shore to shore. 

Thus all men learn the God they dread 
Is kinder than they had supposed, 
And that, not God, but Man hath said, — 
" The door to freedom must be closed ! " 
Once past that door, with broadened view, 
They find Him better than they knew. 



THE PILLARS OF HERCULES 5 i 

Meanwhile, along the sunlit strait 

My ship glides toward the saffron west, 

Beyond the old Phenician gate 

To ocean's gently heaving breast, 

Whence, on the ever-freshening breeze, 

There greet my spirit words like these ; — 

Sail bravely on! the morning light 
Shall find thee far beyond the land ; 
Gibraltar's battlemented height 
And Afric's tawny hills of sand 
Shall soon completely sink from view 
Beneath the ocean's belt of blue. 

Sail on ! nor heed the shadows vast 
Of fabled Powers, whose fear enslaves! 
Their spectral shapes shall sink at last 
Below the night's abandoned waves; 
Rest not confined by shoals and bars; 
Steer oceanward by God's fixed stars! 



FRIENDSHIP 

'Tis not in the bitterest woes of life 
That the love of friends, as a rule, grows cold; 
Still less does it melt in the heat of strife, 
Or die from the canker of borrowed gold ; 

For pity comes when they see us grieved, 
Or forced to lie on a couch of pain, 
And a hasty word is soon retrieved, 
And the loan of money may leave no stain. 

'Tis oftenest lost through the deadly blight 
Of Society's pestilential air, 
Which blackens the robe of purest white, 
And fouls what once was sweet and fair. 

An envious woman's whispered word, 
A slander born of a cruel smile, 
The repetition of something heard, 
The imputation of something vile, 

Or possibly even a fancied slight 
For a feast declined, or a call delayed, 



FRIENDSHIP 53 

Or jealousy caused by petty spite, 

Or the wish for a higher social grade, — 

'Tis one, or all of these combined, 
That saps the love of our dearest friends, 
And slowly poisons heart and mind, 
Till the joy of generous friendship ends. 

Last night they were in a cordial mood, 

To-day they suddenly seem estranged! 

Shall we, then, grieve and sadly brood 

O'er the unknown cause that has made them changed ? 

Ask once, that they make the matter clear, 
But ask no more, if the lesson fail ; 
Let changelings go, however dear, 
And shed no tears for a love so frail. 

Be not the slave of a friend's migraine, 
Nor let him play, now hot, now cold; 
The master of thyself remain, 
And the key of thine inmost heart withhold! 

For they who weep and sue and plead, 

Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove, 

And the friends with " moods " are the friends who 

need 
To learn that they are not worth our love. 



TO MY DEAD DOG 

All is noiseless; 

Cold and voiceless 
Lies the form I've oft caressed; 
Heedless now of blame or praises, 
'Neath the sunshine and the daisies 
Dear, old Leo lies at rest. 

Eager greeting, 

Joy at meeting, 
Watching for my step to come, 
Grief at briefest separation, 
Sorrow without affectation, — 
These are over, — he is dumb ! 

Loyal ever, 
Treacherous never, 

Lifelong love he well expressed; 

Ah ! may we deserve like praises 

When beneath the sun-kissed daisies 

We, like Leo, lie at rest! 



TO-DAY 

" The sun will set at day's decline " ; 

Qu'importe ? 
Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine! 
Of what avail are mournful fears, 
Foreboding sighs and idle tears, 
They hinder not the hurrying years ; 
Buvons ! 

" This fleeting hour will soon be past " ; 

Qu'importe ? 
Enrich its moments while they last ! 
To-day is ours; be ours its joy! 
Let not to-morrow's cares annoy! 
Enough the present to employ; 
Vivons ! 

" These pleasures will not come again " ; 

Qu'importe ? 
Enjoy their keenest transport then! 
If but of these we are secure, 
Be of their sweetness doubly sure, 
That long their memory may endure ! 
Rions ! 



56 TO-DAY 

" With time love's ardor always cools " ; 

Qu'importe ? 
Leave that lugubrious chant to fools ! 
Must doubt destroy our present bliss? 
Shall we through fear love's rapture miss, 
Or lose the honey of its kiss ? 
Aimons ! 

" The sun will set at day's decline " ; 

Qu'importe ? 
Will not the eternal stars still shine? 
So even in life's darkest night 
A thousand quenchless suns are bright,— 
Blest souvenirs of past delight; 
Allons ! 



TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER 
READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF 
LORD BYRON" 

Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands, 

Describes strange climes and visions passing fair, 

Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands 

A private casket filled with treasures rare, 

So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say 

Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid; 

Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray 

Above the depths of ocean's briny bed. 

For, oh ! how often must thy mind retrace 

Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue, 

Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face, 

And kisses sweeter far than he had sung; 

The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes, 

The hours of inspiration when he wrote, 

Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise 

At feeling thy white arms about his throat ; 

To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth 

When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice, 

But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth 

Reveals the folly of the siren's voice. 

Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy; 



5§ 



TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI 



Thy happy fate to see no rival claim 
A share in what was thine without alloy; 
How must the remnant of thy life seem tame ! 
Yet this thy recompense, — that thou dost keep 
Thy friend and lover safe from every change; 
For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep, 
And life it is, not death, that can estrange. 



THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS 

Through the marble gates of Ostia, 
Where the Tiber meets the sea, 
And a hundred Roman galleys 
Strain their leashes to be free, 
Streams a flood of sunset glory 
From the classic sea of old, 
Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming, 
And the Tiber turns to gold. 

Why, indifferent to this splendor, 
Do the people throng the streets? 
What is everyone demanding 
Of the stranger whom he meets? 
They have heard alas! the rumor 
That, ere dawn regilds the sky, 
All the world may be in mourning, 
For the Emperor must die. 

Search, O Romans, through the annals 
Of the rulers of your race, 
From the zenith of their glory 
To their ultimate disgrace, — 



60 THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS 

And as earth's most perfect master, 
And the noblest of your line, 
You will yield your greatest homage 
To this dying Antonine. 

For he holds a Caesar's sceptre 
In a loving fathers hand, 
And his heart and soul are given 
To the welfare of his land; 
Through his justice every nation 
Hath beheld its warfare cease, 
And he leaves to his successor 
Rome's gigantic world at peace. 

Hence these nations now are waiting 
In an anguish of suspense, 
For their future is as doubtful, 
As their love for him intense ; 
By the Nile and on the Danube, 
From the Tagus to the Rhine, 
There is mourning among millions 
For the man they deem divine. 

Now the sunset glow is fading, 
And the evening shadows creep 
O'er the ashen face of Caesar, 
As he lies in seeming sleep; 



THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS 61 

But he slumbers not; for, faithful 
To his duties, small and great, 
He is not alone the sovereign, 
But the servant of the State. 

Unrebuked, then, his Centurion, 
As the sun-god sinks from sight, 
Makes his wonted way to Caesar 
For the password of the night ; 
And great Antonine, though conscious 
That ere dawn his soul must pass, 
As his last, imperial watchword, 
Utters " ^Equanimitas ! " 

O thou noblest of the Caesars, 
Whose transcendent virtues shine, 
Like a glorious constellation, 
O'er the blood-stained Palatine, 
When the latest sands are running 
From my life's exhausted glass, 
May I have thy calm and courage, 
And thine ^quanimitas! 



THE BUTTERFLY 

I watched to-day a butterfly, 
With gorgeous wings of golden sheen, 
Flit lightly 'neath a sapphire sky 
Amid the springtime's tender green; — 

A creature so divinely fair, 

So frail, so wraithlike to the sight, 

I feared to see it melt in air, 

As clouds dissolve in morning light. 

With sudden swoop, a brutal boy 
Caught in his cap its fans of gold, 
And forced them down with savage joy 
Upon the path's defiling mould; 

Then cautiously, the ground well scanned, 
He clutched his darkened, helpless prey, 
And, pinched within his grimy hand, 
Withdrew it to the light of day. 

Alas ! its fragile bloom was gone, 
Its gracile frame was sorely hurt, 









THE BUTTERFLY 63 

Its silken pinions drooped forlorn, 
Disfigured by the dust and dirt; 

Its life, a moment since so gay, 
So joyous in its dainty flight, 
Was slowly ebbing now away, — 
Its too-brief day eclipsed by night. 

Meantime, the vandal, face aflame, 
Surveyed it dying in his grasp, 
Yet knew no grief nor sense of shame 
In watching for its final gasp. 

At last its sails of gold and brown, 

Of texture fine and colors rare, 

Came, death-struck, slowly fluttering down, 

No more to cleave the sunlit air; 

One happy, harmless being less, 

To bid us dream the world is sweet ! 

Gone like a gleam of happiness, 

A glimpse of rapture . . . incomplete! 

Yet who shall say this creature fair 
In God's sight had a smaller worth 
Than that dull lout who watched it there, 
And in its death found cause for mirth? 



64 THE BUTTERFLY 

For what, in truth, are we who claim 
An endless life beyond the grave, 
But insects of a larger frame, 
Whose souls may be too small to save? 

Since far-off times, when Cave Men fought 
Like famished brutes for bloody food, 
And through unnumbered centuries sought 
To rear their naked, whelp-like brood, 

How many million men have died, 
From pole to pole through every clime, — 
An awful, never-ending tide 
Swept deathward on the shores of Time! 

Like insects swarming in the sun, 
They flutter, struggle, mate, and die, 
And, with their life-work scarce begun, 
Are struck down like the butterfly; 

A million more, a million less, 
What matters it? The Earth rolls on, 
Unmindful of mankind's distress, 
Or if the race be here, or gone. 

Thus rolled our globe ere man appeared, 
And thus will roll, with wrinkled crust, 



THE BUTTERFLY 65 

Deserted, lifeless, old, and seared, 
When man shall have returned to dust. 



And it at last shall also die ! 
Hence, measured by the eternal scale, 
It ranks but as the butterfly, — 
A world, ephemeral, fair and frail. 

Man, insect, earth, or distant star, — 
They differ only in degree ; 
Their transient lives, or near or far, 
Are moments in eternity! 

Yet somehow to my spirit clings 
The faith that man survives the sod, 
For this poor insect's broken wings 
Have raised my thoughts from earth to God. 



AFTER THE STORM 

The duel of the warring clouds 
Hath ended with the day; 
Their scintillant, electric blades 
Have ceased their fearful play ; 
The pent up fury of their hate 
Hath found at last release, 
And o'er the tempest-stricken earth 
Broods now the hush of peace. 

The passing of the hurricane 
Hath swept the sultry skies ; 
The clearness of the atmosphere 
Brings jubilant surprise; 
The mountain peaks are glorified 
With freshly-fallen snow, 
And, stealing o'er their coronets, 
Appears the sunset glow. 

An hour since, a torrid heat 
Oppressed the languid frame; 
The wind was as the khamseen's breath, 
The solar touch seemed flame ; 



AFTER THE STORM &/ 

But now the air rejuvenates, 
The breeze refreshment brings, 
The lustrous leaves drop diamonds, 
The lark with rapture sings. 

Fear not, dear heart! life's darkest storms 
Shall likewise end in light ; 
Behind the blackest thundercloud 
The sun shines clear and bright; 
Once more celestial heights shall wear 
Their sheen of spotless snow, 
And on the bravely steadfast soul 
The smile of God shall glow. 



FALLEN 

My country! by our fathers reared 
As champion of the world's opprest; 
Whose moral force the tyrant feared; 
Whose flag all struggling freemen cheered; 
In clutching at an empire's crest 
Thou too art fallen like the rest. 



Not in thy numbers, wealth or might, 
Proud mistress of a continent! 
For rival nations, at the sight 
Of thy resources, view with fright 
Thy progress without precedent; 
Not there is seen thy swift descent. 



Reread the story of thy birth! 
Recall the years in conflict spent 
To prove to a despairing earth 
That every Government of worth 
Is really based on free consent; 
Then view with shame thy present bent ! 






FALLEN 69 

Thou hadst a place unique, sublime; 
In many a land beyond the sea 
The victims of despotic crime 
In thee, the latest born of Time, 
Beheld a land from tyrants free, 
The sacred Ark of Liberty. 

But now the Old World's lust for lands 
Infects thee too; the dread disease 
Hath left its plague-spots on thy hands ; 
Thy monster area still expands; 
For, blind to history's Nemesis, 
Thou too wouldst alien races seize. 

Condemning with profound disdain 

All other nations' heartless greed, 

How couldst thou buy from humbled Spain 

A people struggling to attain 

A freedom suited to their need? 

Why stultify thy boasted creed? 

Thine aid to them thou mightst have given, 
As France her aid once gave to thee ; 
With them thy sons might well have striven, 
And their blood-rusted fetters riven; 
But why, in Heaven's name, should we 
Shoot men aspiring to be free? 



70 FALLEN 

I tread the fields where thousands sleep, — 
The blood-soaked fields that freed the slave; 
What precious memories still they keep 
For hearts that mourn and eyes that weep ! 
Yet for the lives those heroes gave 
What have we that they died to save? 



A Union? Yes; outstretched in might 
From snow to palm, from sea to sea; 
But pledged to use its strength aright, 
And evermore to keep alight 
The torch of human liberty: 
Is this the Union that we see? 

Where history's Martyr dared to break 
The power that held a race in chains, 
I see the ghastly lynching-stake, 
Where brutal mobs their vengeance take, 
And, since no law their course restrains, 
Gloat o'er their writhing victim's pains. 

Race hatred, — born of groundless fears 

And narrow prejudice of caste — , 

Now greets the cultured black with sneers 

And, barring him from high careers, 

Breaks, like a mad iconoclast, 

The nation's idols of the past. 



FALLEN 71 

No more can we with steadfast eyes 

Protest, when tortured races moan 

With hands uplifted toward the skies; 

Their tyrants answer with surprise 

And new-born insolence of tone, — 

" These are our lynchings ; cure your own ! " 

Yet hope remains! A path retraced 

Is nobler than persistent wrong; 

A fault confessed is half effaced; 

That land alone can be disgraced 

Which is not just, however strong, 

Toward those to whom its " spoils " belong. 

My country! Would to God that praise 
Might leave my lips, instead of blame ! 
So near the parting of the ways, 
Subjected to the eager gaze 
Of millions, jealous of thy fame, 
Retrace the path that ends in shame! 



" AEQUANIMITAS " 

Watchword sublime of Rome's imperial sage, 
Tersest of synonyms for self-control, 
Paramount precept of the Stoic's age, 
Noblest of mottoes for the lofty soul, — 
Would thou wert writ in characters of light, 
At every turn to greet my reverent gaze, 
And bid me face life's evils, calm, upright, 
Unspoiled alike by calumny or praise ! 
With all our science we are slaves of Fate; 
What is to come we know not, cannot know ; 
Grief, suffering, death, — all touch us soon or late, 
The master question, how to meet the blow. 
Grant me, ye Gods, through life a steadfast eye, 
And then, with equanimity, to die ! 



DREAMLAND 

I woke from dreams of rare delight 
And visions of a joyous land, 
Where loved ones, long since lost to sight, 
Walked blithely with me, hand in hand : 

Where every brow was free from care, 
And Youth's sublime ideals shone 
Like planets in an Alpine air, 
And death's sad mystery was known. 



I woke, — and like a bird that waits, 
Uncertain where to wend its flight, 
My spirit lingered at the gates, 
Which close upon that realm of light; 



Till, slowly, all around grew clear, 
And once again the light of day 
Convinced me that I still was here, 
Though all my dreams had passed away. 



74 DREAMLAND 

Once more I faced a world of Pain ! 
Of quivering nerves and sure decay, 
Of helpless brutes, by millions, slain 
To feed mankind a single day ! 

Of shivering children, scarred with blows, 
Of hunted bird and tortured beast, 
Of War, whose hideous programme shows 
Its means of homicide increased. 

The same old world of greed and hate, 
Of selfish act and paltry aim, 
Of private fraud and venal State, 
Of deeds and doers steeped in shame! 

What marvel if the spirit shrinks 
From plunging in that turbid stream? 
Or if, on waking thus, one thinks 
That life was better in his dream? 

Sweet, peaceful dreamland ! I await 
The favored hour, to pass again 
Within thine asphodelian gate, 
Beyond the miseries of men; 

To find old pleasures, long since gone, 
Perchance as vivid as of yore, 
Or else to sleep, — life's curtains drawn, — 
And reawaken . . . nevermore. 






ROME REVISITED 

sovereign Rome, still mistress of the heart, 
As of the world in thy majestic prime, 
Grand in thy ruins, peerless in thine art, 
Rich in the memories of a past sublime, 

Is thine the fault or mine that thou art changed, 
And that I tread the new Tiberian shore 
Convinced, alas! that we are now estranged, 
And that for me thy charm exists no more? 

1 have grown older, but am not blase, 

My hair has whitened, but my heart is young, 
Still thrills my pulse the tomb-girt Appian Way, 
Still stirs my soul the ancient Latin tongue. 

Whence then this transformation, that pervades 
Rome's very air, and leaves its blighting trace 
Alike upon the Pincio's colonnades 
And on the Mausoleum's rugged face? 

The fault, dear Rome, is neither thine nor mine, 
But that of vandals nurtured on thy breast, 



7 6 ROME REVISITED 

Who, mad as " modern citizens " to shine, 
Have fashioned thee like cities of the west. 



Thy time-worn face, and figure deeply bowed 
By countless sufferings for two thousand years, 
Whose proper garment seemed to be a shroud, 
Commanding reverence, sympathy and tears, 

Are now bedecked with tawdry gems of paste; 
Parisian robes thy withered limbs conceal; 
Thy wrinkled cheeks are rouged; in vulgar taste 
A modern watch-fob holds the Caesar's seal! 

Where once imperial Triumphs proudly passed, 
Electric cars roll thundering through thy streets; 
In Raphael's groves the automobile's blast 
Expels the Muses from their calm retreats. 

Through sinuous miles of shops with worldly wares 
Bewildered pilgrims reach St. Peter's shrine; 
Some modern stamp each old piazza bears; 
And freed from weeds, thy burnished ruins shine! 

Near Hadrian's massive bridge of sculptured stone, 
The Tiber surges 'neath an iron frame, 
Across whose ugly beams the tramcars groan, 
And brand the river with a bar of shame. 



ROME REVISITED 77 

Gods of Olympus, can ye not restore 
To outraged Rome her dignity of old? 
'Twere better Jove and Juno to adore 
Than in their stead to worship only Gold ! 

Thy glorious statues, cruelly defaced, 
Thy crumbling shrines, thy marbles burnt to lime, 
The lone Campagna's fever-stricken waste, 
Where lizards bask on columns once sublime, — 

The Flavian Amphitheatre's gaping wounds, 
The Baths of Caracalla's roofless walls, 
The Forum's multitude of ruined mounds, 
The royal Palatine's abandoned halls, — 

All these indeed create a hopeless pain, 
When fancy strives to reconstruct the whole, 
Yet pathos, wakened by a wreck-strewn plain, 
Inspires at least nobility of soul. 

But where a Syndic's greed hath left its trail 
The picturesque and beautiful take flight; 
The Past's inspiring influences fail, 
As stars are hidden by electric light. 

Yet protests meet derision and disdain; 

The fatal madness spreads from land to land; 



78 ROME REVISITED 

Peace, Art, and Beauty everywhere are slain 
By greedy Traffic's hard, rapacious hand. 

We laugh at lessons taught by others' fate, 
We see no ending to our prosperous day; 
Forgetting that, in turn, each ancient State 
Hath passed through bud and flower to decay. 

Behold the retrogression of those lands 
Whence painting, sculpture and the drama sprung; 
See starved Trinacria's outstretched, empty hands, 
And all the classic shores by Homer sung! 

In what have we surpassed them? We are taught 
Their art, their ethics, and their rythmic speech; 
Both Greece and Asia still control our thought, 
Their grandest works still far beyond our reach. 

The breathless transfer of men, thoughts, and things, 
Improved designs for vaster fratricide, — 
Are these the leading gifts this century brings, 
The twentieth, too, since Christ was crucified? 

Yet thoughts that most have influenced mankind 
Were not sent broadcast with the lightning's speed; 
Nor do the works of Plato lag behind 
The myriad books and papers that we read ! 



ROME REVISITED 79 

And thou, Italia, that for ages played 
A role whose majesty can ne'er be told, 
Hast thou, like all the rest, thy trust betrayed, 
Adored the New, and sacrificed the Old? 

Wilt thou for fashion make thy Past forlorn? 
Waste precious substance upon useless ships? 
Transport to Africa thine eldest born, 
And let gaunt hunger blanch thy peasants' lips? 

Make poorly paid officials banded knaves ? 
Drive starving sons by thousands from thy shore, 
Or let them rot in Abyssinian graves, 
And hide the cancer festering at thy core? 

If so, 'tis certain thou must dearly pay 

For playing thus the war-lord's pompous part, 

And thou shalt feel at no far-distant day 

The people's dagger driven through thy heart. 

Fain would I find some peaceful Pagan shrine 
Unspoiled as yet by vandals of to-day, 
Around whose shafts the sweet, wild roses twine, 
And on whose marble walls the sunbeams play ; 

There would I dream of days when life was sweet 
With poetry, art, and myths devoid of dread, 



80 ROME REVISITED 

When all the Gods in harmony could meet, 
And no eternal torment vexed the dead. 

Our vaunted age is one of feverish haste, 
Of racial hatred and of loathsome cant, 
Of gross corruption and of tawdry taste, 
Of monster fortunes, with a world in want. 

I am not of it, and I will not be ! 

Its social strife and slavery I despise; 

Gone is its shore; I sail the open sea 

O'er tranquil waters and 'neath cloudless skies! 



ON THE PALATINE 

I tread the vast deserted stage 
Whereon the Caesars lived and died; 
The relics of Rome's golden age 
Lie strewn about me far and wide, 
Mementoes of an empire's pride, 
The homes of men once deified. 



What are they now? Stupendous piles 
Of mouldering corridors and walls, 
On which alike the sunshine smiles 
And cold the rain of winter falls; 
A wilderness of roofless halls 
Whose tragic history appalls! 



Below me, like an opened grave, 
The Forum's excavations lie, 
Where column, arch and architrave 
In solemn grandeur greet the eye, 
Still guarding 'neath Italia's sky 
The glory that can never die. 



82 ON THE PALATINE 

And here, above me and around, 
In part still shrouded by the soil, 
A stony chaos strews the ground, 
Where patient students delve and toil 
To bring to light Time's buried spoil, 
And History's tangled threads uncoil. 

Halt! where thou standest Rome was born! 
These stones by Romulus were placed, 
When, on that far-off April morn, 
Two snow-white bulls the furrow traced 
For Rome's first wall, which, firmly based, 
Two thousand years have not effaced. 

From these rude blocks how vast the bound 
To that huge, labyrinthine mass 
Through which the secret pathways wound, 
Where emperors, if alarmed, could pass; 
Yet even there could find, alas ! 
The poignard or the poisoned glass. 

What ghastly crimes these rooms recall! 
Here Nero watched his brother drain 
The fatal draught, then lifeless fall; 
Here, too, Caligula was slain, 
When, shrieking, with disordered brain, 
He pleaded for his life in vain. 



ON THE PALATINE 83 

At every turn some pallid ghost 
With haggard features seems to rise 
To join the long-drawn, murdered host 
That moves with sad, averted eyes, 
Like victims to a sacrifice, 
To where the Via Sacra lies. 



Behold the mighty Judgment Hall, 
Where Nero with indifferent air 
Remarked the pleading of St. Paul, 
Nor dreamed the man before him there 
Would soon be read and reverenced where 
The Roman empire had no share! 

Where are they all, — those men of pride 

Whose palace was the Palatine, 

From Romulus the fratricide 

To Hadrian, and Constantine, 

The last of all the western line 

Of Caesars who were deemed divine? 

And all the millions who were swayed 

By those who dwelt upon this hill, 

And who in humble awe obeyed 

The dictates of their sovereign will, — 

Are they self-conscious beings still, 

Or are their minds and bodies . . . Nil? 



84 ON THE PALATINE 

I watch our planet's god decline 
Behind the tomb-girt Appian Way; 
The old, imperial Palatine 
Grows purple 'neath the sun's last ray; 
Shades of the Caesars, if ye may, 
The mystery of death portray! 

Are there in truth Elysian Fields ? 
And is there life beyond the grave? 
Or are the years that Nature yields 
Confined this side the Stygian wave? 
For those who more existence crave 
Is there a Power to help and save? 

Alas ! no answer ; on their hill 
The murdered Caesars make no sign; 
Their myriad subjects, too, are still, — - 
Mute as the voiceless Palatine; 
Yet overhead the fixed stars shine, 
And bid us trust in the Divine ! 



THE FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD 
AT FONTAINEBLEAU, 1814 

Stately court of Fontainebleau, 

Nine and ninety years ago 

On thy spacious esplanade, 

Ranged in formal dress parade, 

Stood the Emperor's grenadiers 

With their bronzed cheeks wet with tears, 

Waiting once again to show 

Love for him at Fontainebleau. 

Noon had struck above the square, 
When adown the Horse Shoe stair 
In his well-known coat of gray, 
Worn on many a hard-fought day, 
Came the man adored by all 
As their " Little Corporal," 
Forced by Europe now to go 
Far from royal Fontainebleau. 

In the ranks a sudden stir 
Swelled to shouts of Vive l'Empereur; 
Then deep silence reigned, save where 
On the peaceful summer air 



86 FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD 

Choking sobs, but half suppressed, 
Came from many a faithful breast 
At the overwhelming blow 
Dealt them here at Fontainebleau. 



Could the rumor, then, be true? 
Would he say to them adieu ? 
Would their idol and their pride, 
He whom they had deified, 
Leave his royal grenadiers, 
Veteran troops of twenty years ? 
Hark! he speaks in accents low 
To his Guard at Fontainebleau : — 

" Comrades, brothers, we must part " ; 
(How his lov'd tones thrilled each heart 1) 
" It were wrong to you and France, 
Did I once more say ' Advance ' ; 
On the ruins of my State 
I at last must abdicate, 
And with you no more can know 
Happy days at Fontainebleau. 

" Valiant soldiers of my Guard, 
Thus to part is doubly hard ; 
Did you silence Prussian guns, 
March beneath Italian suns, 



FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD 87 

Enter Moscow and Madrid, 
Fight beside the Pyramid, 
And survive grim Russia's snow, — 
Thus to yield at Fontainebleau? 

" Heroes of great wars, farewell ! 

You have heard my empire's knell, 

Yet no hostile world's decree 

Can estrange your hearts from me; 

Exiled to a tiny isle, 

Through your tears you well may smile 

At the realm my foes bestow, — 

Elba . . . after Fontainebleau! 

" Now of all who once were true 
I can count alone on you; 
Would that each might take the place 
Of the eagle I embrace ! 
Let the tears which on it fall 
Move the souls of one and all! 
Never have I loved you so 
As to-day at Fontainebleau." 

Hushed his voice; a moment more, 
At the passing carriage door 
Gleamed Napoleon's mournful eyes, — 
Smouldering flames of sacrifice; 



88 FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD 

Then his pallid, classic face 
Vanished ghostlike into space, 
And a dreary sense of woe 
Settled over Fontainebleau. 

Dead are now those grenadiers; 
Quelled are Europe's anxious fears; 
By the Seine the Emperor sleeps; 
France her watch beside hirn keeps; 
But the lonely Horse Shoe stair 
Still preserves its sombre air, 
For the light of long ago 
Falls no more on Fontainebleau. 



JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 

The son of a Japanese lord am I, — 

A Prince of the olden time; 

My hair is white, though black as night 

In my youth and early prime ; 

And again and again I ask myself, 

As the past I sadly scan, 

Are we better or worse? Was it blessing or curse 

That foreigners brought Japan? 

It is barely two score years and ten 

Since the epoch-making day 

When a foreign fleet, through the summer heat, 

Came sailing up our bay; 

Still ring in my ears my father's words, 

As we watched it breast the waves, — 

" If strangers land on Nippon's strand, 

We may one day be their slaves." 

But the strangers landed, and asked for trade 
And a permanent " Open Door," 
And we deemed it best to grant the West 
A foothold on our shore; 



9Q JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 

Their slaves in truth we have not become, 
Yet who can fail to find 
That Japan obeys in a thousand ways 
The will of the western mind ? 



We sent our sons across the seas 

To learn from the Western Powers 

Their modes of life and their modes of strife, 

And have made them largely ours; 

But before all else have we learned from them 

That our first great aim must be 

To possess a fleet that can defeat 

All rivals on the sea. 

Hence, all that the West hath yet devised 

For the slaughter of men en masse 

We have copied or bought, and have stopped at naught 

To make our fleet " first class " ; 

And lest this might not quite suffice, 

Should an enemy come in sight, 

We have made each man throughout Japan 

A soldier trained to fight ! 

But alas for the change that hath been wrought 
In the millions in our fields ! 
For the costly ships take from their lips 
The food that the harvest yields ; 

1 



JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 91 

They were always poor, but their load was light, 
Compared with their load to-day, 
For thousands of hands that worked the lands 
Are drafted now away. 

And sad are the scenes in the sphere of Art 
In which we had won such fame ; 
The fing-ers left are not so deft 
As they were when the strangers came ; 
For then we toiled for Beauty's sake, 
And by time were we never paid ; 
But now we have sold our art for gold 
And the western market's trade. 

I never look at the goods now sent, — 
So worthless do they seem, — 
Without a sigh for the standard high 
Which prevailed in the old regime ; 
When even the hilt of a Daimio's sword 
Was a work of months or years, 
And the highest reward for a triumph scored 
Was praise from the artist's peers. 

No, the soul of my people is not the same ; 
It was formerly sweet and kind, 
And happiness reigned in hearts restrained 
By an unspoiled, gentle mind ; 



92 JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 

But now the lusts of the outer world 
For power, and lands, and gold, 
Our sons deprave, till they madly crave 
What others have and hold. 



We have borrowed many things from the West, 

But one have we left alone; 

Of its Christian creed we had no need, 

And have thus far kept our own; 

For each of its numerous sects affirms 

That it has the only way, 

And that all the rest should be suppressed, 

For they lead mankind astray. 

But worse than the claims of rival sects 

xAnd the war of clashing creeds, 

Is the gulf, — heaven-wide ! which we descried 

Between their words and deeds; 

For He whose sacred name they bear 

Was known as the Prince of Peace, 

And what He taught, in practice wrought, 

Would cause all wars to cease. 

They say with truth that we used to fight 
For our Lords on sea and coast, 
But our soldiers then were as one to ten, 
Not a permanent armored host! 



JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 93 

Nor do we claim to obey the God 
They worship in the West; 
But, since they do, is it not true 
That they mock at His first behest? 



His words were " Love your enemies ! " 

And never a hostile act 

To friend or foe should Christians show, 

By whomsoever attacked; 

But they are really the best prepared 

To attack and to resist; 

And the Kaiser who prays is the Kaiser who says,- 

" Go ! Strike with the mailed fist ! " 

We look abroad, and everywhere 

The spirit of Christ is dead; 

Men call Him Lord, but they draw the sword 

•In defiance of what He said; 

And the haughty, white-skinned Christian race 

Hates men of a different hue, 

And robs and slays in a thousand ways, 

With excuses ever new. 

In the North and South, in the East and West 
In vain do the natives plead; 
By the Congo's waves are countless graves, 
Where the Paleface gluts his greed; 



94 JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 

And China's fate looms dark and grim, 
As its people note the means 
That Christians take, when gold's at stake, 
From the Rand to the Philippines. 

We have had to choose between the rule 
Of the Sermon on the Mount 
And the brutal fact that nations act 
With an eye to their bank-account! 
And we see that the only way to shun 
The clutch of the Western Powers 
Is to learn to kill with Christian skill, 
And to make their weapons ours. 

For we will not, like the others, bend 
Our necks to the white man's yoke; 
And poor Japan, to her latest man, 
Will answer stroke with stroke; 
So I watch to-night a solemn sight 
On the breast of the moonlit bay, 
As our gallant host for a hostile coast 
Prepares to sail away. 

It is life or death for my native land, 
And I fear I may never see 
Those ships again, with their noble men, 
Return from victory; 



JAPAN,— OLD AND NEW 95 

And well I know in my heart of hearts, 
As the past I sadly scan, 
That we are worse, and it was a curse 
That foreigners brought Japan. 

1904. 



THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES 

[The great temple at Miyagi in Japan was recently the scene 
of grand funeral observances for the horses slain in the late war 
with Russia, the Buddhist priests reading prayers and conducting 
services of a most solemn character.] 

Hark! how the Orient's bells are proclaiming 
Obsequies strange to the shrines of the west — 

Services Christendom's cruelties shaming — 
Taught by the merciful, Buddha the blest. 

Peace on Manchuria's plains has descended; 

Tall waves the grass where the chivalrous bled; 
Murder and massacre finally ended, 

Sadly the living remember their dead. 

Requiem masses and prayers without number 
Plead for the souls of the Muscovite brave, 

While of the Japanese, wrapt in death's slumber, 
Tender memorials honor each grave. 

But in Gautama's compassionate teaching 
Love is not limited merely to man ; 



THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES 97 

Kindness to animals formed in his preaching 
No less a part of his merciful plan. 

Hence by the Buddhists, in counting the corses 
Heaping with horror the death-trampled plain, 

Not unremembered are thousands of horses, 
Left unattended to die with the slain. 

What did war seem to these poor, driven cattle ? 

What was their part in the horrible fray- 
Save to be shot in the fury of battle, 

Or from exhaustion to fall by the way ? 

Dragging huge guns over rocks and through mire, 
Trembling with weakness, yet straining each nerve, 

Fated at last in despair to expire, 

Uncomprehending, yet willing to serve! 

Nothing to them were the hopes of a nation; 

" Czar " and " Mikado " were meaningless sounds ; 
None of the patriot's deep inspiration 

Softened the agony caused by their wounds. 

Not for these martyrs the skill of physician, 
Ether for anguish or lint for a wound; 

Theirs but to lie in their crippled condition, 
Thirsting and starving on shelterless ground. 



98 THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES 

Hail to these quadrupeds, dead without glory! 

Honor to him who their valor reveres ! 
Spare to these heroes, unmentioned in story, 

Something of sympathy, something of tears. 



A WINTER'S DAY 

Into my garden sweet and fair 
Brightly the sun at noonday shines, 
Melting the frost from the wintry air, 
Warming the trellis of leafless vines. 



Basking there in the genial heat, 
South of my sheltering vineyard wall, 
Strolling, I dream in my lov'd retreat,- 
The smile of the sun-god over all. 



Far too early a shadow dark, 
Cast by the neighboring mountain's crest, 
Stealthily creeps across the park, 
Bringing a chill from the sombre west. 



Little by little my sunlit space 
Shrinks to a narrowing path of light ; 
Further and further with dread I trace 
The sure advance of approaching night. 



ioo A WINTER'S, DAY 

Soon will arrive its twilight pall; 
Then, as the potent change is felt, 
The fountain's drops will cease to fall 
And feathery films refuse to melt. 



But still in the solar warmth I wait, 

The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine ; 

Is that a tear ? It is growing late, 

And she asks how long the sun will shine. 



ON THE PROMENADE 

O joyous idler in the sun, 

In pity slacken here thy pace ! 

A lad, whose course is nearly run, 

Is watching thee with wistful face. 

The glow of health upon thy cheek, 
The youthful ardor in thy gait, 
Appear to him, so frail and weak, 
The bitter irony of Fate. 

Thou art to him the vision fair 
Of all he once had hoped to be; 
What wonder, then, that in despair 
His longing glances follow thee ? 

Let not the gulf too deep appear 
Between thy fortune and his own! 
Thou didst not see that falling tear, 
Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan. 

The pang of age compared with youth, 
Or hunger with the spendthrift's wealth, 



102 ON THE PROMENADE 

Gnaws not with such a cruel tooth 
As that of pain confronting health. 

Yet must the strong ship breast the wave, 

The wreck lie rotting on the shore ; 

O hopes that perish in the grave ! 

O youthful dreams that come no more ! 



SOLITUDE 

Had I but lived when music-loving Pan 

Still played his flute amid the whispering reeds, 

When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran, 

And — symbolizing well man's earlier creeds — 

A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair, 

Portrayed the gods, and led men's thoughts to prayer, 



jl would have sought some beautiful retreat, 
! Remote from cities and the din of men, — 
Some tranquil shore where lake and forest meet 
By limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen, 
And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude, 
A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude! 



How hath a heedless world neglected thee, 
Thou coy divinity, too shy and proud 
ITo sue for followers from those who see 
Attraction merely in the strenuous crowd ! 
For only those can know thee, as thou art, 
Who wisely seek and study thee . . . apart. 



104 SOLITUDE 

No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage, 
No Asian founder of a faith divine, 
No bard, or writer of inspired page 
Hath ever failed to worship at thy shrine, 
O Nourisher of steadfast self-control, 
Of noble thoughts, of loftiness of soul! 



Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave, 

No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask, 

Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave, 

But only those who, faithful to life's task, 

Must yet at times look upward from the clod, 

And seek through thee acquaintanceship with God. 



OUT OF THE RANKS 

From the bitter fight I have made my way 
To the peaceful crest of a lonely hill, 
But the noise and heat of the deadly fray 
And the smart of wounds are with me still. 



No recreant I to a noble cause, 
Nor traitor base to a leader bold ; 
'Twas a fight where he won most applause 
Who captured most of his neighbor's gold ; 



Where the wounded crawled away to die, 
Or, hopeless, ate their bread with tears, 
And the only cries that rent the sky 
Were the shouts of frenzied financiers. 



Alas for the prematurely gray, 

Who struggle there through joyless lives 

To win the means of more display 

For thankless children, thoughtless wives ! 



io6 OUT OF THE RANKS 

Alas for those whose spirits yearn 
For leisure, books, and sunlit fields, 
Who yet can never pause to learn 
The joy that a life of culture yields! 



Still sway the mad crowds to and fro ! 

I hear their groans and panting breath, 

The hideous impacts, blow on blow, 

The moans of those who are crushed to death! 



None stoop to lift up those who fall ; 
A thousand leap for a vacant place, 
Thrust weaker thousands to the wall, 
And trample many an upturned face ! 



But I, however the fight may go, 
Have turned my back on the sordid fray, 
To face the tranquil sunset-glow, 
And hope for the dawn of a better day. 



AUTONOMY 

Stand forth, my soul, and take thine own! 
Though all should blame thee, have no fear! 
Self-poised and steadfast, dare alone 
Thy self-elected course to steer. 

Before thee lies the open sea; 
Beyond it is the wished-for shore; 
The route that seemeth best to thee 
Select, and hesitate no more! 

For he who lives the timorous slave 
Of social plaudits or disdain, 
Drags feebly to a nameless grave 
A craven's ever-lengthening chain. 

Are thy plans noble, just, and fair? 
Pursue them bravely to the end, 
Nor pause to question or to care 
What says thy foe, or what thy friend. 

Succeed, and thou shalt surely find 
That those who longed to see thee fail, 



ic8 AUTONOMY 

And, lingering hopelessly behind, 
Spat venom on thine upward trail, 

Shall run to reach thee on thy path, 
To grasp thy hand and say " 'Twas well " ; 
Or, distant, gnaw their lips in wrath, 
Their envious hearts a living hell. 

Forever, flint-like, set thy face 
Against the loss of self-control; 
Compel the world to keep its place; 
Be thou the captain of thy soul ! 



ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 

You thought me sunk in lethargy, too deeply drugged 

with sleep 
To notice how your armored fleets kept creeping o'er 

the deep, 
Too indolent to organize, too feeble to resist, 
Too timid to return the blow of Europe's mailed fist ; 
And Asia's conquest seemed to you a matter of such 

ease 
That all your kings knew perfectly the part which 

each would seize. 
Of such a " sluggish, inert mass " why should you be 

afraid ? 
You wanted ports and provinces for purposes of trade, 
And monster "spheres of influence", whose wealth 

could be controlled 
And plundered by your Governments to fill their 

vaults with gold; 
Hence, since it seemed so probable that none of us 

would fight, 
Why should you even hesitate to prove that Might 

makes Right? 



no ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 

And yet perhaps it had been well, before you formed 

your plan, 
To study Asia's history from Persia to Japan; 
For though the sleeping Orient, like grain before the 

blast, 
May bow its head, it rights itself when once the storm 

is past. 
How often has the Occident invaded our domains 
And boasted of its victories ! Yet of them what 

remains ? 
Seems India exceptional? Fools, judge not by a 

day! 
The horologe of centuries moves slowly in Cathay. 
The brilliant son of Macedon saw, crushed and pale 

with fear, 
The vanquished East from Babylon to Egypt and 

Cashmere ; 
But though the conquered Orient lay helpless, as his 

slave, 
Of Alexander's influence how much survived his 

grave ? 
Of Rome's prodigious armaments, to Asian conquests 

led, 
Where is there now a souvenir save relics of the dead ? 
And of the vast Crusading hosts, which in their mad- 
ness rose 
And hurled themselves repeatedly upon their Moslem 

foes, — 



ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 in 

What is to-day the net result ? A thousand years have 

passed, 
But none of all their vaunted gains proved great 

enough to last; 
The Saviour's tomb, Jerusalem, and all the sacred 

lands 
Connected with the Christian faith are still in Asian 

hands ! 



We needed rude awakening to rouse us from our sloth ; 
It came among our northern isles, whose heroes, noth- 
ing loth, 
Unbarred their ports to modern fleets, their ancient 

life forswore, 
And learned from greedy foreigners the Christians' 

art of war. 
Behold! the world in fifty years is breathless with 

surprise, 
And Europe's greatest Government has sought us 

for allies ! 
That little section of our mass aroused itself, and lo! 
Your largest Occidental Power has reeled beneath the 

blow ; 
And while our living troops receive men's rapturous 

acclaim, 
Our fallen heroes have attained the Pantheon of fame. 



H2 ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 

Yet think not we deceive ourselves; you praise, but 

really dread 
The valour of the Orient, if this awakening spread; 
Behind this movement of the East you think you hear 

the low, 
Long murmur of the Asians, — " The foreigner must 

go"! 
What wonder that we hate you all ? You look on us 

to-day 
As lions look on antelopes, — their heaven-appointed 

prey; 
You know you have no lawful right to lands that 

you possess; 
You gained them all through violence, or lying and 

finesse ; 
Your cursed opium alone, despite our prayers and 

tears, 
Has ruined millions of our race for more than two 

score years, 
And when we rose indignantly to right that bitter 

wrong, 
Your heavy guns bombarded us, and you annexed .... 

Hong Kong! 
You force yourselves on us, and ask concessions, 

favors, mines, 
Protection for your mission schools, and grants of 

railway lines, 






ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 113 

But when we cross the seas to you, an entry you 

refuse, 
And curse, illtreat, and harry us with loathing and 

abuse. 
Japan has shown the only way of keeping for our own 
The fertile fields which rightfully belong to us alone; 
We do not wish to arm ourselves, and fighting we 

abhor, 
But self-protection forces us to learn and practise war. 



Hence, if assailed, we shall not shun a struggle with 

the West; 
Not bent on conquest, like yourselves, but, rising to 

the test 
Of " Asia for the Asians ", defend our threatened 

farms 
By sending to encounter you a million men in arms. 
You think yourselves invincible? Learn something 

from Japan, 
The fever of whose chivalry now spreads from man 

to man, 
Encouraging the Orient to hasten on the day 
When all enlightened Asians shall cry " Enough ! 

Away! 
Go exploit helpless Africa, where you have shamed 

the beast, 
But understand, your cruel day is over in the East ! " 



ii4 ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 

You still have many things to learn, base worshippers 

of gold; 
When you were wild barbarians, our Governments 

were old! 
Your self-conceit and arrogance we therefore laugh 

to scorn; 
We had our laws millenniums before your courts 

were born. 
You talk by electricity, you ride on wings of steam, 
You thunder with machinery, — and these you proudly 

deem 
The grandest triumphs of the race, forgetting that 

mere speed 
In transference of men and things is less than one 

great deed. 

You treat us condescendingly, as if our gifts were 

small, 

But do you think Almighty God has dowered you 

with all? 

Earth's greatest continent is ours; her highest moun- 
tains rise 

In unapproached sublimity beneath our starry skies ; 

Ours, too, the cradle of the race ; and at our Buddha's 

shrine 

Unequalled numbers of mankind adore him as divine. 

How dare you speak of Asian thought with pity or a 

sneer, 



ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 n 5 

When practically all you know originated here ? 
What had you been, if our ideals, in art and faith 

expressed, 
Had not come down through Greece and Rome to 

civilize your West? 
The great religions of the world are all of Asian 

birth, 
And thence went forth resistlessly to dominate the 

earth. 
Of six we granted one to you; and you profess its 

creeds, 
But what a sorry travesty you make of it in deeds ! 
The Christ taught love to enemies; His followers 

to-day 
Have trained the whole male Christian world their 

fellow men to slay! 
The very Bible that you prize was writ by Asian 

hands ; 
Your prophets, saints, and patriarchs were all of 

Eastern lands; 
The Son of God, as you believe, was born a humble 

Jew; 
The Virgin Mother equally no other parents knew; 
Yet you have robbed and tortured Jews, and mur- 
dered them at will 
Through eighteen Christian centuries, — are killing 

thousands still ! 



n6 ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 

The " Star of Empire," as you claim, has " westward " 

made its way; 
But what if now in Eastern skies it heralds a new 

day? 
You fondly dreamed its brilliant course had ended 

there with you, 
But on it moves, old lands to greet, and belt the globe 

anew ! 
Its kindling rays revivify our nations, which have 

slept 
While round the world our influence through you has 

slowly crept. 
The coming century's great deeds lie not at Europe's 

doors ; 
A grander stage awaits mankind, — the vast Pacific's 

shores ; 
And we not only skirt that sea from Tokio to Saigon, 
Our coastline fronts the western world from Syria to 

Ceylon ! 
Again shall we supply to you the part of life you need ; 
Again your slaves of strenuous toil shall live at 

slower speed; 
Once more, as pilgrims to a shrine, your chiefs shall 

come to me, 
And learn of my philosophy, as children at my knee. 
You cannot cut me from your past, nor cancel what 

you owe 
For all my sages gave to you two thousand years ago ; 






ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906 117 

For after twenty centuries you think, and speak, and 

pray 
Still much as I instructed you in Syria and Cathay. 
Keep you, then, the material, I hold the mental, realm ; 
For you the ship's machinery, for me the guiding 

helm! 



THE CAPTIVE 

I opened the cage of my pet canary ; 
Timid, it faltered a moment there, 
Then, at my call, became less wary, 
And blithely sprang to the buoyant air. 

Brief was its dream of freedom's rapture; 
A window barred its sunward flight; 
It beat its wings in fear of capture, 
But found no way to the world of light. 

Out in the park two birds were mating, 
Building together their tiny nest; 
Keenly the captive watched them, waiting, 
Pressing the glass with its throbbing breast. 

Leaving at length the window-casing, 
Lighting by chance on a neighboring shelf, 
It stood before a mirror, facing 
The pretty form of its own sweet self. 

Falling in love with its own reflection, 
Thinking it always another bird, 



THE CAPTIVE 119 

Bravely it tried to win affection, 
Warbling tones I had never heard. 

Hopeless alas ! its tender wooing, 
Vainly it trilled its sweetest note, 
Coldly received was its ardent sueing, 
Silent the mirrored songster's throat. 

Wearied at last, it flew off sadly, 
Back to the cage's open door, 
Back to the home it left so gladly 
Only a little hour before. 



Dead are the lovers so fondly mated! 
Gone is their nest ; it was blown away ! 
But safe in the narrow cage it hated 
The captive sings on its perch to-day. 



WEARINESS 

Snowy sails, silvery sails, 
Gleaming- in the sun, 
Leaving scores of jewelled trails 
In the course you run, 

On your white wings bear away 
All my care and pain; 
I would for at least to-day 
Be a child again. 



Just to thrill with youthful fire, 
Kindling heart and brain, 
Just to know the old desire 
Lofty heights to gain ; 



Just to hold the simple faith 
Into which I grew, 
When my God was not a wraith, 
And all men were true ! 



WEARINESS 121 

Shadowed sails, clouded sails, 
Life hath made me know- 
That you leave no jewelled trails, 
Proudly though you go; 

Drops that floods of diamonds seem 
Are but dazzling spray, 
Fleeting as a happy dream, 
Swift to fade away. 

Distant sails, waning sails, 
Waft me to some shore 
Where corroding care prevails 
Never, nevermore! 

Where the flotsam of the deep 
Finds its wanderings cease, 
And the shipwrecked sink to sleep 
On the strand of peace. 



A MAY MONODY 

Beside my opened window pane, 
Each morning in this month of May 
A blackbird sings in dulcet strain 
Two liquid notes, which seem to say 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

Alike in sunshine and in rain, 
Now loud and clear, now soft and low, 
He warbles forth the same refrain, 
Which haunts me with its hint of woe, — 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

What bird, whose absence gives him pain, 
Doth he thus tenderly recall ? 
What longed-for joy would he regain 
By those two words which rise and fall, — 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

Sometimes, when I too long have lain 
And listened to his plaintive air, 






A MAY MONODY 123 

An impulse I cannot restrain 
Hath moved me too to breathe that prayer, — 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

O vanished youth, when faith was plain, 
When hopes were high, and manhood's years 
Showed dazzling summits to attain; 
O days, ere eyes grew dim with tears, — 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

O friends, whose memory leaves no stain, 
O dearly loved and early lost ! 
Do you your love for me retain 
Beyond the silent sea you crossed? 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 

Alas! sweet bird, all life moves on; 
The seed becomes the ripened grain, 
And what is past is gone, is gone ! 
Cease calling, therefore, — 'tis in vain — -„ 
" Come again ! Come again ! " 



MY LOST FRIENDS 

One by one they have slipped from Earth, 
And vanished into the depths of space, 
And I, beside my lonely hearth, 
Find none to take their place. 

Never a word of fond farewell 

Fell from their lips ere they were gone; 

Never a hint since then to tell 

If after night came dawn ! 

Latest of all to thus depart, 
Still is thy hand-clasp warm in mine; 
Wilt thou not tell me where thou art ? 
Canst thou impart no sign? 

Wild are the winds above thy grave ; 
Cold is the form I loved so well ; 
But what to thee are storms that rave, 
Or the snow that last night fell ? 

Out in the awful void of night, 
Numberless suns and planets roll; 



MY LOST FRIENDS 125 

Has one of all those isles of light 
Received thy homeless soul ? 



Mute is the sky as an empty tomb; 
Trackless the path, and all unknown; 
What means this journey through its gloom, 
Which each must make alone? 

Vain is the task; I strive no more 
To learn the secret of their fate ; 
Till sounds for me the muffled oar, 
I can but hope and wait. 

But well I know they have gone from me 
Into the silent depths of space, 
Across a vast, uncharted sea, 
Whose shores I cannot trace. 



TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET 

To sleep and to forget, — O blessed guerdon! 
The day is waning, and the night draws near ; 
My failing heart grows weary of its burden ; 
Why should I therefore hesitate or fear 
To sleep and to forget? 

Though bright my skies with transient gleams of 

gladness, 
And sweet the breath of many a summer sea, 
Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadness 
Forever lures me in its minor key 
To sleep and to forget. 

Of petty souls whose joy is defamation, 
Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed 
Each day supplies, its sickening revelation, 
And makes imperative my spirit's need 
To sleep and to forget. 

Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow, 
And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal! 
Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow, 
I humbly ask one favor for my soul, 

When this life's sun is set, — 

To sleep and to forget. 



IN SILENCE 

She sees our faces bright and gay, 
Our moving lips, our laughing eyes, 
But scarce a word of what we say 
Can pass the zone that round her lies ; — 

A zone of stillness, — strange, profound, 
Invisible to mortal eye, 
Upon whose verge the waves of sound 
In muffled murmurs break and die. 

Across that silent void she strains 
To catch at least some winged word, 
And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns 
The poor pretence of having heard. 

That smile ! Its pathos wrings the heart 
Of many a friend, who yet conceals 
The tears that from his eyelids start, 
The grief and pity that he feels. 

And she, aware of our distress, 
And sadly conscious of her own, 



128 IN SILENCE 

Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess 
That our real meaning is unknown. 

What rapture, when the closing door 
Shuts out the world and gives release, 
And on her quivering nerves once more 
Descends the benison of peace ! 

No longer forced to dimly read 
Men's meanings from their lips and looks, 
Her greatest joy, her only need 
The sweet companionship of books! 

Do we thus ever fully know 

The boon of leaving far behind 

The world's dull tales of crime and woe, 

The gossip of its vacant mind? 

What if her loss be really gain, 
That zone of silence a defence, 
A compensation for her pain, 
A quickening of her psychic sense ? 

Perhaps when fall at last away 

The chains which bind her spirit here, 

A voice divine will gently say 

In tones which reach alone her ear, — 



IN SILENCE 129 

" While others in that world of sin 
Heard evil things, to thee unknown, 
Apart from that defiling din 
Thy spirit grew, in strength, alone. 

" They must through other lives return 
To slowly earn thy strength of soul; 
Through suffering only couldst thou learn 
The virtue that hath made thee whole." 



AT THE VILLA OF THE EMPEROR 
FREDERICK III AT SAN REMO 

San Remo's palms in beauty stand 

Beside the storied sea, 
Where azure band and golden sand 

Are wedded ceaselessly; 
For from the deep, which seems to sleep, 

The slow waves, long and low, 
Their journeys done, break one by one 

In rhythmic ebb and flow. 

Before me lies a fair retreat, 

Whose every breath brings balm 
From plants replete with odors sweet 

And many a fronded palm; 
Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait 

To feast my gladdened eyes 
On buds that wake and flowers that make 

A perfumed paradise. 

Alas, that love could not avail 

To guard this sweet repose ! 
That strength should fail, and life prove frail 

And fleeting as the rose! 



VILLA OF EMPEROR FREDERICK III 131 

So fair ! and yet, who can forget 

The heir to Prussia's throne, 
Who here fought death with labored breath, 

And faced the great Unknown? 

O Spirit of the Fatherland, 

O love that changeth not, 
Thy filial hand hath made this strand 

A consecrated spot; 
For on the wall, where roses fall, 

Bronze words recall his fate, — 
A sceptre won . . . when life was done, 

An empire gained . . . too late ! 

" Halt, wanderer from a German shore ! " 

(Thus runs the sad refrain,) 
" Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore 

With fortitude his pain; 
Hear'st thou the lone, low monotone 

Of billows tempest-tossed? 
In that long roll the German soul 

Still mourns for him she lost." 

San Remo's stately palms still rise 

Beside the storied shore ; 
But he now lies 'neath northern skies, 

At peace forevermore, 



i 3 2 VILLA OF EMPEROR FREDERICK III 

In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep, 
Whose secret none may know, 

While, one by one, — their courses run, — 
The long waves ebb and flow. 



IN A COLUMBARIUM 

The autumn sun still bravely streams 

Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, 

And warms the heart of one who dreams 

Of all its splendor on the day 

When Scipio triumphed, bringing home 

The spoils of Africa to Rome. 



On this same road the conqueror came, 
Called " Africanus, the Divine " 
By thousands who adored his fame, 
And proudly watched the endless line 
Of Punic captives in his train, 
And trophies, won on Zama's plain. 



To-day the vast Campagna rolls 

In stately grandeur to the sea, 

But where are now the countless souls 

Whose dwelling-place this used to be, 

When all its space to Ostia's gate 

Lay peopled and inviolate? 



i 34 IN A COLUMBARIUM 

Ask of the Claudian arches gray 

Which stride toward Rome in broken lines ; 

Ask of the lizards at their play 

On relics of the Antonines; 

Ask of the fever-blighted shore, 

Where Roman galleys ride no more! 

Yet some poor traces still remain 
Of those who here have lived and died ; 
For underneath this solemn plain 
The Christian catacombs still hide, — 
A city of sepulchral gloom, 
The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb. 

Moreover, in this classic soil, 
Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, 
A simple peasant at his toil 
Discovered 'neath the upturned loam 
The spot to which I now have come, — 
A Roman Columbarium. 

Down through its modern, open door 
A flood of mellow sunshine falls 
In golden waves from roof to floor, 
Revealing in its moss-grown walls 
The " dove-cotes ", where one still discerns 
The fragments of old funeral urns. 



IN A COLUMBARIUM 

One vacant niche, whose ampler space 
Betokens special love and care, 
Contained no doubt a sculptured face 
Above the hallowed ashes there ; 
While, just beneath, faint letters spell 
A faithful woman's fond farewell. 

How often on love's winged feet 

She doubtless sought this dear recess, 

To deck with floral offerings sweet 

Her sepulchre of happiness, 

Whose script, despite two thousand years, 

Preserves the memory of her tears! 

Rome's annals hint not of the name 
Of him whose dust lay treasured here, 
But could the fleeting breath of fame 
Have made him to her heart more dear? 
A word of tenderness outweighs 
In woman's soul a world of praise. 

What though, remote from pomp and state, 

At Caesar's court he could not shine ? 

Less blest had surely been his fate 

Upon the lustful Palatine ! 

And mutual love, wherever viewed, 

Is life's supreme beatitude. 



135 



136 IN A COLUMBARIUM 

Alas ! the urn no longer stands 
Within the little alcove dim; 
Gone also are the faithful hands 
That hung sweet roses on its rim; 
And vanished even is the bust 
Which watched above the sacred dust. 



Yet still its words of love survive 
The shocks and tragedies of time, 
And bid our drooping hearts revive, 
Inculcating the faith sublime 
That, while the urn in ruin lies, 
Love soars immortal to the skies. 



DISCOURAGEMENT 

" Forward, comrades, ever forward " ! 
Shout the leaders in the fight; 
" Scale the ramparts ! Plant the standard 
On the citadel of light! 

" Break the chains of superstition ! 
Crush corruption! Free the slave! 
Plant the flowers of love and mercy 
On the past's ensanguined grave! 

" Toward the strongholds of oppression 
Lead again the hope forlorn ! 
See! the night is disappearing; 
Lo ! the coming of the morn " ! 



Bravely said ; yet men have spoken 
Just as bravely long ago, 
When the hair had raven blackness 
Which is now as white as snow; 



138 DISCOURAGEMENT 

And alas! how many thousands 
Have responded to that call, 
Whose forgotten corpses moulder 
By the still beleaguered wall ! 

Forms have changed and words have altered, 
But the things remain the same ; 
Still doth man enslave his brother, — 
Always master, save in name. 

Still are God's dumb creatures tortured, 

Racial hatreds never cease, 

And man's greatest self-delusion 

Is the shibboleth of " Peace." 

Hence, while youth, with hope and courage, 
Loudly vents its noble rage; 
Age, profoundly disillusioned, 
Sad and silent leaves the stage. 

Round the classic Inland Ocean, 
Where the Roman world held sway, 
Storied shores are iridescent 
With the splendor of decay; 

Persia, Syria, Egypt, Athens, 

Proud Byzantium, Carthage, Spain, — 



DISCOURAGEMENT i 39 

In their mournful desolation 
Hear the old sea's sad refrain : — 

" Rising, falling, waxing, waning, 
Men and nations come and go ; 
Reaching glory, then declining, 
As the ebb succeeds the flow. 

" All florescence is but fleeting : 
Each in turn enjoys its day, 
Hath its seed-time, bud and flower, 
And as surely fades away. 

" Growth, maturity, decadence, — 
Form mankind's unchanging role, 
And the dead past's sombre ruins 
Are prophetic of the whole." 

" Nay," you cry in bitter protest, 
" Shall man have no perfect end, 
No millennial culmination, 
Toward which all the ages tend? 

" Must all races prove decadent ? 
Shall not one produce in time 
Perfect types of men and women 
In a world devoid of crime ? " 



i 4 o DISCOURAGEMENT 

Scan the lurid past, and tell us 
On what ground you base your hopes ! 
Does an endless line of failures 
Warrant brighter horoscopes? 

Hath not every race and nation 
Sunk from grandeur to decay? 
What shall save us, then, from ruin? 
Are we better men than they? 

" Great inventors ", say you? Granted; 
Such material gifts are ours; 
Every age hath some distinction, 
Every race its special powers. 

But the progress is not lasting, 
And the special powers decline; 
Man's advance is never constant 
In one grand, unbroken line. 

Nor is ground, once lost, recovered; 
Greece and Rome are not replaced ! 
All the sites of pagan learning 
Still lie desolate and waste. 



What know we, — except in physics- 
That the ancients did not know ? 



DISCOURAGEMENT Hi 

Are we wiser than the sages 
Of two thousand years ago? 

More devout than Hebrew prophets? 
More upright than Antonine? 
More accomplished than the Grecians, 
Or than Buddha more divine ? 

And if such men could not hinder 
Fate's resistless rise and fall, 
How can we expect exemption 
From the common lot of all? 

Let us frankly face the prospect 
That man's progress here may fail; 
That the race may never triumph, 
But again descend the scale, 

Till the last surviving savage 
To his glacial cave retires, 
And earth's tragic drama closes, 
As humanity expires ! 

And why not? All weaker species 
To the stronger yield their place ; 
May the same law not be needed 
Through the boundless realms of space? 



142 DISCOURAGEMENT 

By whatever beings peopled, 
Worlds that fail to meet the test 
May like fruitless blossoms perish ; 
God will winnow out the best. 

Would you know our planet's value ? 
View the star-strewn dome of night! 
In that shoreless sea of splendor 
What is one faint wave of light? 

Worlds by millions are revolving 
Through that vast, unfathomed main; 
Should our tiny orb make shipwreck, 
Worlds by millions would remain; 

Where perchance a real advancement 
May prevail from pole to pole, 
Without losses, without lapses, 
Toward a final, perfect goal. 

This at least can not be doubted, — 
That our globe will one day roll 
Cold and lifeless thro' its orbit, 
Like a corpse without its soul. 

Will mankind have reached perfection 
Ere that epoch has begun, 



DISCOURAGEMENT 143 

Or grown bestial, as the heat-waves 
Issue feebly from the sun? 

None may know. Through blood-stained cycles 
We have thus far made our way : 
Of the unknown depths beneath us 
We are nothing but the spray. 



MESALLIANCE 

With gentle manners, winsome face, 
And forehead fit to wear a crown, 
How brilliant might have been her place, 
Had she not mated with a clown, — 



A Caliban of modern date, 
Ill-dressed, ill-shapen, ill at ease, 
With halting speech and awkward gait, 
And manners certain to displease! 



What secret motive could have led 
This charming girl her life to stain 
By condescending thus to wed 
A husband whom she must disdain? 



Far worthier men had vainly sought 

To win her for herself alone ; 

What potent spell could Love have wrought 

To draw her to a tactless drone? 



MESALLIANCE J 45 

A palace she might well have graced, 
And led its functions like a queen; 
Instead, her life has run to waste, 
The wraith of what it might have been. 

For boorishness hath brought its blight; 
Her rare accomplishments are marred, 
And every path, with promise bright, 
By stupid tyranny is barred. 

Yet still she bravely moves through life, 
Ignoring her pathetic fall; — 
A loveless, broken-hearted wife; 
Alas, the pity of it all ! 



IN A MODERN CITY 

Dreary fog and drizzling sleet, 
And a lamp-lit track of slime ; 
Phantoms dim in the misty street, 
Vanishing, streaked with grime; 
Overhead in a spurious night, 
Formed by the vapors dun, 
Wraith-like globes of haloed light, 
Mocking the hidden sun; — 

Children, shod in sodden shoes, 
(That is a sight that hurts;) 
Women, furrowing filthy ooze 
In thin, bedraggled skirts; 
Horses, lashed with cruel zest, 
Ploughing the fumid fog; 
Hark ! . . . a car, with no arrest, 
Killing a howling dog; — 

Clanging trams, with haggard men 
Forcing their way within, — 
Some compressed in a steaming pen, 
Others soaked to the skin; 



IN A MODERN CITY 147 

Smoke and soot in the murky sky, 
Death in the tainted air, 
Each aware, were he to die, 
None in the crowd would care; — 

Here and there a carriage fine, 
Cleaving the reeking mass ; 
Scowling faces, ranged in line, 
Watching the rich man pass; 
Envy's gleam in many an eye, 
Hate in many a threat ; 
Why should he be warm and dry, 
And they be cold and wet? 

Pictures these of the " Passing Show," 
Scenes in a world gone wrong, 
Wretched weaklings, born to woe, 
Crushed by the brutal strong! 
Breaking hearts that crave release, 
Slaves to a ceaseless strife! . . . 
I will go back to sylvan peace 
And a sight of the Source of Life. 



MY BORES 

I take their hands with placid smile 
And words which social rules enforce, 
Though sadly conscious all the while 
Of something very like remorse, 
Because beneath the mask I wear 
I really wish they were not there. 



Their visits I at heart resent; 

The half-read volume haunts my thought; 

The urgent note remains unsent; 

The verse, unfinished, comes to naught; 

And all because, on some pretence, 

They waste their time at my expense. 



Yet no grim misanthrope am I, 

Who fears, distrusts, and hates his race; 

I merely wish them to pass by, 

And seek some other lounging-place ; 

For, frankly, I should love them more 

A little further from my door. 



MY BORES 149 

In vain I make no answering calls ; 

They blandly smile and come again! 

Nay, even bring within my walls 

More curious strangers in their train, 

" Who wished so much your home to see ! " 

Why do they never think of me? 

The few I want I can invite; 

Hence why should others thus intrude? 

How dare they give themselves the right, 

Unasked, to spoil my solitude? 

And why presume I care to know 

More triflers in their world of show ? 

Their idle life, on pleasure bent, 
Their mania for some silly game, 
Their hours in stupid gossip spent, — 
Would give me self-contempt and shame; 
Between us is no common ground 
On which a comradeship to found. 

A word or two upon the street 
Suffice me with the most of men ; 
Beyond a greeting, when we meet. 
I care not if we speak again ; 
My books and Nature's charming face 
Such human consorts well replace. 



ISO MY BORES 

Not all, indeed; for who but yearns 
To call some kindred heart his own? 
Some friend to whom he fondly turns, 
And with whom he is still alone, 
Since each, while absolutely free, 
Respects the other's privacy. 

To such his pent-up love o'erflows; 
With such his soul's seclusion ends; 
For each the other's nature knows, 
And every motive comprehends; 
So perfectly do both agree, 
So close their bond of sympathy! 

But those who come to wear away 
With me the time they deem a bore, 
And blithely rob me of a day 
Which God Himself cannot restore — 
From such, at risk of being rude, 
I will preserve my solitude. 

Their vapid visits I refuse; 

Their forced attachment I decline; 

I surely have the right to choose 

The friends, whose lives shall blend with mine; 

My bark shall gain the open sea 

With but the few I love and me. 



GRATITUDE 

The sun is on the mountain crest, 

The sky without a cloud, 

The moon is slipping down the west, 

The robin's song is loud; 

White blossoms crown the apple trees, 

The dew is on the thorn, 

The scent of roses fills the breeze, — 

Thank God, another morn! 

The sunset embers smoulder low, 
The moon climbs o'er the hill, 
The peaks have caught the alpenglow, 
The robin's song is still; 
The hush of peace is on the earth, 
With stars the sky grows bright, 
The fire is kindled on my hearth, — 
Thank God, another night! 



IN TENEBRIS 

All the lights have been extinguished 
In my closely-curtained room, 
Nothing now can be distinguished 
In the all-pervading gloom ; 
And through darkness, so alluring, 
I would float away to sleep, 
Like a boat that slips its mooring, 
And moves gently toward the deep. 

How delightful this seclusion 
From the garish light of day,— 
All its turmoil and confusion 
Pushed, a little while, away ! 
Neither men nor things shall try me 
Till to-morrow brings its light; 
Let my cares go drifting by me ! 
I'll not think of them to-night. 

Social cant and empty phrases, 
Base returns for kindness shown, 
Envy's serpent-smile, and praises 
Which convey, for bread, a stone, — 



IN TENEBRIS i 53 

What a joy to have rejected 
All such griefs, of evil born! 
What a boon to feel protected 
From their advent until morn ! 

Moon and stars, without, are gleaming 

Over snow-capped peaks sublime, 

But to-night I'll give to dreaming, 

Nor esteem it wasted time; 

Nay, through darkness, so alluring, 

I will float away to sleep, 

Like a boat that slips its mooring, 

And moves gently toward the deep. 



TWO MOTHERS 

One night two lonely women met 

Beside a storm-swept bay; 

With tears their mournful eyes were wet, 

Their pale lips salt with spray ; 

They passed; then turned, as though each yearned 

Some friendly word to say. 



" Poor soul ", cried one, " hast thou no fear 

To walk this haunted strand? 

What hopeless sorrow brings thee here, 

Where dead men drift to land? 

I too have grief beyond relief ; 

Speak! I can understand." 



" I mourn a son ", the other said; 

" That ocean is his grave ; 

My heart will not be comforted, 

It breaks with every wave ; 

Would I might sleep in yonder deep 

With him I could not save ! 



TWO MOTHERS ISS 

" The wind was raging, as to-night ; 
Straight on these rocks it blew ; 
I watched until the dawning light 
Disclosed the wreck to view; 
From where we stand I saw his hand 
Wave me a last adieu ! 

" He deemed the boat too frail to bear 

Another living freight ; 

' Push off ' ! he said with tranquil air, 

' Go first, and I will wait ; ' 

But all the while, despite his smile, 

He knew 'twould be too late. 

" That heartless crew shall nevermore 

God's absolution find ! 

They watched, like cravens, from the shore 

The man they left behind 

Go down before the breakers' roar, 

The surges and the wind ! 

" Hence, when such maddened tempests rave, 

I cannot rest at home, 

For then the billows deck his grave 

With flowers of snow-white foam; 

And here I pray till break of day 

Beneath night's starless dome." 



156 TWO MOTHERS 

A silence fell; then, faint and low, 

The other, weeping, said ; 

" My heavier woe thou needst not know ; 

Within his ocean bed 

On thy son's name there rests no shame; 

Would God that mine were dead ! " 



AT HOCHFINSTERMUNZ 

Once more between its walls of pines 
I see the long ravine expand 
To where the ice-world's crystal lines 
Define the realm of Switzerland. 

Once more, a thousand feet below, 
I watch the river's silver sheen, 
As, foaming in its fettered flow, 
It rushes from the Engadine. 

Forever young, forever old, 
This gorge, where stream with forest blends, 
These glittering peaks, these glaciers cold, — 
Are all to me familiar friends. 

I know, alas, their towering forms 
Of unresponsive rocks and snow 
Are heartless as their wintry storms, 
And heed not if I come or go ; 

Yet none the less I love to trace 
Their stainless crests along the sky, 



158 AT HOCHFINSTERMUNZ 

And, as I greet each well-known face, 
Each seems in turn to make reply. 



So potent is the subtle spell 
That clothes such masses with a mind; 
So strong the instincts which impel 
Their lover answering love to find! 

What if in truth there really be 
A soul within them to adore ; 
Some half-revealed Divinity, 
Whose presence haunts us evermore? 

Some Power, to read our hearts, and know 
How this wild beauty moves our tears; 
Some God that, as our spirits grow, 
Shall be discerned in after years ? 

Instinctively did earlier man 
See fauns and dryads in the trees, 
And find in universal Pan 
The soul of Nature's mysteries. 



All is divine, — the bird that sings, 

The flowers that bloom, the waves that roll; 



AT HOCHFINSTERMUNZ 159 

One Spirit quickens men and things, 
And stirs alike the sun and soul. 

Great Nature's God! however styled, 
I love thee, and upon thy breast 
Would gladly lie, — a grateful child, 
And, dying, trust thee for the rest. 



THE GIFT OF JUNO 

Already 'neath the morning star 
The shrine, by Juno's favor blest, 
Had flashed its whiteness from afar, 
Resplendent on a mountain's crest, 
Along whose base the ocean rolled 
A flood of sapphire, flecked with gold. 



In twilight still the shore remained ; 
But, toiling upward through the night, 
A wistful mother had just gained 
The summit of the sacred height, 
Where Juno's far-famed statue stood, — 
Palladium of motherhood. 



At her approach the bolts were drawn, 
And inward swung the temple gate, 
Revealing in the light of dawn 
The marble form immaculate, 
The effigy of heaven's queen, 
Sublime, beneficent, serene. 



THE GIFT OF JUNO 161 

Slow-moving and with fluttering heart, 
The youthful matron onward passed 
To where that masterpiece of art 
Repaid her arduous toil at last; 
As, gazing through a mist of tears, 
She realized here the dream of years. 

Beside her, one on either hand, 
Two little children stood in fear, 
Unable yet to understand 
The reason of their coming here ; 
Both beautiful in form and face, 
True types of the Hellenic race. 

No fairer pilgrims ever came 
Within the temple's stately door; 
No sweeter picture could it frame 
Than that upon its marble floor, 
When, in the hush of dawning day, 
The lovely trio knelt to pray. 

" Immortal goddess, not in vain 

Do mothers lift their souls to thee ; 

Their love, their hopes, their fears, their pain 

Thy heart can feel, thine eyes can see ; 

Deign, therefore, my sweet babes to bless, 

O Juno, fount of tenderness! 



162 THE GIFT OF JUNO 

" To thy divine, all-seeing eyes 
The course of every life is clear ; 
I pray thee, note what future lies 
Before these helpless children here; 
Then, of the gifts by thee possessed, 
Give them but one ; choose thou the best ! " 

She paused, and waited for reply, 
While solemn stillness filled the shrine; 
Heard something like a gentle sigh, 
Or passing of a breath divine; 
Then saw their eyes, like petals, close 
In death's sweet, statue-like repose. 

Repose, unbroken evermore! 
The world of suffering still unknown! 
Escaping through that peaceful door 
From every ill life might have shown. 
Heart-broken mother, cease to weep! 
The best was given them, — dreamless sleep. 



THE AWAKENING 

Let me sleep on ! I would not waken yet, 
Or leave too soon the peaceful realm of dreams ! 
There, lulled by placid Lethe, I forget 
The tumult raging on Earth's roaring streams; 
Doubt not that, later, I shall surely meet 
With steadfast soul Day's ceaseless, sordid strife, 
But now I crave again that strangely sweet 
Oblivion of life; — 

That tranquil sleep, whose cooling shadow stills 
The throbbing forehead and the fevered brain, 
Which soothes to rest all sense of present ills, 
Of poignant sorrow and persistent pain; 
O gift divine, O boon beyond compare, 
God's benediction at the evening's close, 
The antidote of grief, the cure of care, 
The kingdom of repose ! 

Too late . . . the spell is broken ... I awake; 
How swift the rush of memory's turning tide, 
Whose ruthless waves the will's frail barriers break, 
And flood the cells where consciousness would hide! 



r6 4 THE AWAKENING 

Alas, how mad and fierce the world appears! 
How dark and ominous the future seems! 
I rise to face them . . . yet recall through tears 
The quiet land of dreams. 



THE WINE OF LIFE 

Earthen jar of quaint design, 
Fragile clay and slender mould, 
I shall soon have drained the wine 
Which you still contrive to hold, — ■ 
Wine that sixty years ago 
Seemed about to overflow. 

Few the draughts that now remain, 
And I husband them with care, 
For naught ever comes again 
That is once exhausted there, 
And the emptied jar is cast 
To the scrap-heap of the past. 

Oh, the wine we rashly waste 
When held brimming to the lip ! 
What a difference in its taste 
When we drink it sip by sip, 
As a miser counts his gold 
On a hearth that leaves him cold ! 



166 THE WINE OF LIFE 

But why should we feel distress 
If the jar be far from filled? 
Though its contents may be less, 
Yet its essence is distilled, 
And the best wine always clears 
With the passing of the years. 

Fermentation is for youth, 

But serenity for age ; 

For a knowledge of the truth 

Men have always sought the Sage, 

And though youth may live with zest, 

'Tis in age that one lives best. 



LIFE'S TRILOGY 

Youth dreams of all the years shall hold, 
Of poems writ, of battles won, 
Of statues made, of love, of gold, 
And honors, added one by one; 
How sweet the song of Hope, if sung, 
When life is young! 



Man's dreams are stern and few indeed; 
His youthful aims he finds despised, 
For in a world of strife and greed 
Ideals must be sacrificed; 
Alas, there is so little time 

In manhood's prime! 



Age dreams of what the years have brought, 
The blots upon life's tear-dimmed scroll, 
The brave attempts that came to naught, 
The unsolved problems of the soul; 
How sadly is the tale retold, 
When life is old! 



168 LIFE'S TRILOGY 

Youth, Manhood, Age, — the fatal Three! 
Illusion, Struggle, and Regret! 
So hath it been, so shall it be, 
And to what end? We know not yet; 
Still sweeps the mighty life-flood on, 
Now here, now gone! 

Seed, bud, florescence, and decay 
In nature, races, nations, men; — 
Nay, Earth itself shall fail one day 
To feed its freezing brood ! What then ? 
Successive cycles, vast and small, — 
Can these be all? 

Do all these swirls of suns and souls, 
Of spirit keen and senseless stone, 
Speed on to no appointed goals, 
Like sand along the desert blown, — 
Forever born from out. the void, 
To be destroyed? 

Nay, Reason, shocked at anarchy, 
Demands an author and an aim, 
Seeks ever for the master-key 
To solve the mystery, — Whence came 
This starlit sea of Evermore, 
Without a shore? 



LIFE'S TRILOGY 169 

And whence comes Life, — that occult Force, 
So rich in its prolific range, 
So frail and swift to run its course, 
Yet deathless in protean change? 
Must we not hope that Death will clear 
The darkness here? 

Such hopes appear of little worth 
When, peering through our planet's bars, 
We picture this, our tiny Earth, 
Amid that wilderness of stars! 
Yet in those sun-strewn depths of space 
It hath its place. 

Its rhythmic motion, tuned to time, 
Its awful rush, yet sure return, 
Make even our dim orb sublime, 
And we at last the truth discern, — 
With God is neither small nor great, 
Nor soon, nor late. 

Unconscious actors, — it may be 
That here we painfully rehearse, 
In parts, whose plots we do not see, 
Some drama of the universe, — 
Advanced, as nobler grow our souls, 
To loftier roles. 



MYSTERIES 

Bound to the earth in its headlong flight, 
Whence and whither we do not know, 
Cleaving the awful void of night 
With frost above and fire below, 
What is the goal toward which we fly? 
What does it mean to live and die? 



Under our feet a trembling shell, 

Pierced by a hundred lurid rents! 

Lower still a molten hell, 

Seen through its lava-belching vents ! 

And men, within its blighting breath, 

Are charred, like leaves, to a shrivelled death, 



Thin is the rind on which we tread ; 

It shakes, and a thousand lives are lost; 

The sea engulfs unnumbered dead; 

Each second scores of souls are tossed 

Into the stream that sweeps them on . . . 

Whither? Who knows where they are gone? 



MYSTERIES 171 

Over the earth-crust millions crawl, 

Fight for a little gold and grain, 

Then in a few years leave it all, 

Nevermore to be seen again! 

When will the tragic tale be told? 

And what of Man when the earth grows cold? 



Poised on the planet's rim we stand, 
Peering aghast into boundless space; 
Infinite depths on every hand, 
Never again in the self-same place ; 
Dragged by the sun itself away 
On toward a point in the Milky Way. 

Not without companions we; 
Here and there gleam other fires, — 
Burning ships on a shoreless sea; 
Now and again a flame expires, 
One last, quivering shaft of light, 
Shot through a billion leagues of night. 

There in its last volcanic throes 
A dying world perhaps dissolves; 
Further still, where the sun-mist glows, 
A mighty, new-born sun evolves; 
Ceaseless change in an endless sky! 
What does it mean to live and die? 



STAR DRIFT 

The glaring sun hath ceased to shine ; 
The solemn stars invade the sky; 
Again the welcome night is mine, 
Wherein to view the worlds on high; 
The night ! when heaven bares its face, 
And man with reverent soul can trace 
The awful mysteries of space. 

Too long the shadeless solar blaze 
Hath forced my vision toward the sod ; 
'Tis night alone that helps us raise 
Our thoughts from littleness to God, 
And by its darkness sets us free 
To gaze across what seems to be 
The portal of Eternity. 

I watch the stellar hosts ascend 
Their devious paths in slow array, 
And note the place where millions blend 
To form the fabled Milky Way, — 
That zone of radiant suns, whose light 
Hath needed centuries of flight 
To reach our little earth to-night. 



STAR DRIFT 173 

Through lenses scanned, its golden haze 
Resolves itself to points that glow- 
In one stupendous, brilliant maze 
Of countless orbs, that come and go 
On pathways we may never learn, 
However long their light may burn, 
However ardently we yearn. 

Apparently so densely strewn, 

But oh ! what gulfs those suns divide ! 

As each pursues its course alone 

Beyond an interval as wide 

As that which yawns between our own 

And any of those star-seeds sown 

In astral gardens, still unknown. 

Sometimes from that resplendent sheen 
A new light gleams across the void, 
And, awe-struck, we conceive the scene 
Of two vast solar orbs destroyed; 
By fearful impact changed again, 
Unnumbered miles beyond our ken, 
To leagues of blazing hydrogen. 

Before such marvels, what are we 
To plume ourselves in foolish pride? 
Within that dim immensity 
How many suns and earths have died! 



174 STAR DRIFT 

The tiny mote on which we stand, 
However fair and finely planned, 
Is nothing but a grain of sand. 

To-day, as through the ages gone, 
By law impelled, by law restrained, 
Suns, planets, systems, — all sweep on 
Toward bourns still dark and unexplained; 
Some bright with youth, some dull with age, 
Their varied colors well presage 
Their distance from the final stage. 

For all are doomed at last to die! 
On heaven's blue sea each isle of fire, 
Of all that now enchant the eye, 
Must finally in gloom expire; 
Though all may still roll on, unseen, 
As blackened cinders, while between 
Dark, lifeless planets intervene. 

And then ? The mind sinks back in dread ! 
Such burnt-out worlds may well appal, 
If they must still continue dead, 
And universal night end all; 
But, one by one, as speed shall fail, 
Each may some rival mass assail, 
Till nebulae again prevail. 



STAR DRIFT 175 

But not for long ! A refluent surge 
Shall that destructive course reverse, 
And cause those sun-mists to converge 
To mould another universe ; 
Again shall constellations rise, 
And suns and planets light the skies, 
And man regain his paradise. 

For thus with rhythmic sweep sublime 
Swings Chaos on to Cosmos ; then 
In ages, measureless by time, 
Rolls Cosmos back to mist again, 
In one stupendous ebb and flow, 
As aeons come and aeons go, 
With all their freight of weal and woe. 

Hard, cruel, hopeless? It may be. 
We know too little to decide; 
Yet hope that o'er that starlit sea 
Some steadfast, God-directed tide 
Will one day bear us to a shore, 
Where we shall find our lost once more, 
And what was here unknown, adore. 



TYROLEAN 



OBERMAIS 

Obermais ! Obermais ! 

Charming bit of Paradise, 
Where the palm and snow are. blended, 
Where life's joys seem never ended, 
Where the purl of limpid streams 
Haunts the traveller's deepest dreams; 
Girt by miles of terraced vines, 
Birthplace of the purest wines, 
Sheltered by imposing mountains, 
Musical from countless fountains, 
Bathed in sunshine, bright with flowers, 
Studded with old Roman towers, 
Castles, convents, shrines and walls, 
Whose strange history enthralls, — 
Jewel of fair South Tyrol, 
Thou hast won my heart and soul! 



CONTENTMENT 

Urge me no more ! The mid-day toil is ended, 
And shadows lengthen from the radiant west; 
The glowing sun, with sumptuous clouds attended, 
Sinks to its rest. 



I too would rest; an Indian-Summer beauty 
Gilds my life's autumn in a charming vale; 
No further quest of gold or fame seems duty; 
Their splendors pale 



Tempt me no more! In vain are spread before me 
New plans of battle and rare hopes of gain ; 
The sweeter airs of love and peace blow o'er me; 
I will remain. 



Gone is the glamour of the heartless city; 
Hateful its traffic and its ceaseless roar; 
Slaves of its tyranny, you have my pity; 
Urge me no more! 



CONTENTMENT 181 

Girdled by mountains, in a land of story, 
Nestles the high-walled garden of my home; 
Here, book in hand, I feast myself on glory, 
Nor wish to roam. 



Each dawn brings rose-hued snow-peaks to my vision ; 
Each eve's enchanting pageant thrills my soul; 
Day after day I find yet more elysian 
Fair South Tyrol. 

Urge me no more! The riches of Golconda 
Could not allure me to the old-time task; 
Here, till the curtain falls, to live and ponder 
Is all I ask. 



TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS 

Breathe on my soul your everlasting calm, 

Majestic mountains, passionless and cold! 

Give to my spirit, drooping 'neath the palm, 

The rugged strength your changeless summits hold ! 

So thin the azure veil that floats between 
My tropic flowers and your arctic snows, 
That one swift glance reveals to me the sheen 
Of your white bastions and my blossoming rose. 

Yet, though so near, my feet have never pressed 
Your silvered ramparts, etched along the sky : 
Untrodden crystal crowns each spotless crest ; 
On virgin snows the sunset colors die. 

So near, yet unattainable ! Ye seem 
Like awful deities, at whose command 
Man's evanescent life, — a fretful stream, 
One instant murmurs and is lost in sand. 



MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS 183 

Splendid in sunshine, steadfast under storms, 
Facing the fiercest tempests with disdain, 
The blackest clouds that shroud your giant forms, 
Leave on your glittering panoply no stain. 



The setting sun will turn your gray to gold, 
The dawn will find your icy foreheads bare, 
And all your glacial armor, as of old, 
Will shine resplendent in the upper air. 

So from my life may all dark clouds depart! 
So may I come unscathed from Fate's worst blows! 
Yet with your strength, O Mountains, let my heart 
Retain, as well, the sweetness of the rose. 



AT SUNSET 

Belov'd Meran, supremely fair! 
With joy I greet thy peaks anew, 
And quaff again the crystal air 
That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue. 

Once more through miles of trellised vines 
The purple bloom of vintage glows; 
Once more amid my palms and pines 
I breathe the perfume of the rose. 

Once more, as snow-crests far and wide 
Flush crimson in the Alpine glow, 
I sit and muse at eventide 
On Roman days of long ago. 

Across the valley, steeped in light, 
Uplifted toward the western skies, 
And flanked by many a snow-crowned height, 
The stately " Roman Terrace " lies ; 

Whose fair expanse hath been a stage 
Where actors for two thousand years 



AT SUNSET 185 

Have played, by turns, in every age 
Their varying roles of smiles and tears. 

Still through its mighty Vintschgau door 
The sunset streams in floods of gold; 
Still winding o'er its emerald floor, 
The river sparkles as of old. 

I watch the distant torrent leap 
From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound; 
A ghostly path it seems, whose deep, 
Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground. 

Beside its waves, whose glittering spray 
Begems the gorge its flood hath worn, 
Rome's conquering legions made their way 
A score of years ere Christ was born. 

On yonder mound where frowns the wood, 
And curves the road with steep incline, 
A temple to Diana stood 
Before the age of Antonine. 

Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame 
I see the ancient watchtower stand, 
Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame 
Flashed signals into Switzerland. 



186 AT SUNSET 

And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls 
Loom grandly from the darkening moor, 
Where still a dungeon-keep recalls 
The last Tyrolean Troubadour. 

Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower 
That Nature gave to South Tyrol 
Cannot alone explain thy power 
To captivate both mind and soul; 

I love thy sunshine, fruits and flowers, 
I love thy mountain-peaks sublime, 
But, best of all, thine aged towers, — 
The ivied proteges of Time. 

Thus favored, while my sun of life 
Moves calmly toward a cloudless west, 
I crave no more the New World's strife 
And ceaseless turmoil of unrest; 

Content, within my garden walls, 
To let the Present's uproar cease, 
While on my tranquil spirit falls 
The Past's sweet benison of peace. 



POST NUBES LUX 

Sink, sullen rear-guard of the storm, 
Behind the Laugen's snowy crest! 
Already Rotheck's lordly form 
Stands spotless in the radiant west; 
Blow, winter wind, and clarify 
Our crystal air, our sapphire sky! 

Shine, Sun God ! Give us life once more ! 
Too long have clouds concealed thy face ; 
Give to Meran the look she wore, 
When to her beauty, light, and grace 
I gladly yielded heart and soul, 
And made my home in fair Tyrol ! 

Stupendous source of life and light! 
As in thy warmth my pulses thrill, 
Before thy glory and thy might 
I feel myself a Pagan still, 
And in my spirit's inmost shrine 
I half adore thee as divine. 



THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME 

Make haste ! There is but one more turning 
The horses cannot go too fast, 
So eagerly our hearts are yearning 
To see the longed-for home at last ! 



Here is the shrine, the lamp still burning, 
Beside the vineyard's massive wall; 
And see, to welcome our returning, 
The banners on the flagstaff's tall ! 



Before the gate, our servants, wearing 
Their brightest smiles, together stand, 
In quaint, Tyrolean style preparing 
To kiss respectfully the hand. 



Now, too, the dogs perceive their master, 
And rush to meet our carriage wheels; 
The loyal Leo first and faster, 
The dackels close upon his heels! 



THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME 189 

How wild the joy, how loud the chorus 
Our old, familiar tones excite ! 
Dear, faithful creatures that adore us, 
How genuine their keen delight! 



The door is passed, the hall is entered ! 
How true it is, where'er we roam, 
That here alone our hearts are centered, 
That no place hath the charm of Home ! 

Here smile the pictures ranged above us; 
Here stand our books, the best of friends; 
Here those we love and those who love us 
Are happy that our absence ends. 

We prize the intellectual treasures 
On History's famous sites amassed; 
And precious are the varied pleasures 
From Art's great glories of the past; 

But well we know, when once more seated 
Within these rooms with volumes lined, 
That, — now the journey is completed — , 
The best of Rome is in the mind. 



MY GARDEN 

Sweet garden, wreathed in fruits and flowers, 
And domed by blue Tyrolean skies, 
Within thy rose-encircled bowers, 
Secluded from all curious eyes, 
I find a peaceful paradise. 

Without, the world's fierce strife and yearning 
In floods of passion ebb and flow ; 
Within, as in a shrine, is burning, — 
Reflecting fires of long ago, — 
A stormy life's calm afterglow. 

How sumptuous is the golden splendor 
Thy yellow roses give my walls ! 
Like yonder glow, so sweet and tender, 
That o'er the snow at sunset falls, 
And by its spell the soul enthralls. 

How swiftly pass the happy hours 
Beside thy palms, beneath thy pines, 



MY GARDEN 191 

As through the fountain's crystal showers 
I watch the sunlight gild thy vines 
Against the snow-peaks' silvered lines! 

I lean upon my loggia's railing 

And view the vineyard's saffron sheen, — 

Its amber leaves in glory veiling 

The purpling grapes, that hang between 

Its long arcades of gold and green. 

And at the sight my heart is beating 
With rapture hitherto unknown, 
As with delight I keep repeating 
In love's triumphant undertone, — 
" All this is mine, my very own " ! 

Then with a chill, like that which steals 
Across the vale at set of sun, 
A solemn thought the truth reveals, — 
How transient is the prize thus won! 
How short a time my lease can run! 

Before I thought this garden fair 
And from its beauty rapture drew, 
How many others breathed its air, 
And, glorying in its matchless view, 
Had plucked its roses wet with dew ! 



i 9 2 MY GARDEN 

Where now my vines and violets grow, 
And fill the breeze with odors sweet, 
Two thousand years and more ago 
Some Roman had his loved retreat, 
And watched the sun and snow-peak meet. 

Rome fell; but, Maia still remaining, 
Both Goth and Frank the slope desired, 
Through two millenniums still retaining 
The longing for what all admired, 
The love which ownership inspired. 

I sometimes fancy that I see 
Those masters of an earlier age, — 
A ghostly line preceding me 
Across this corner of life's stage, — 
The Pagan, Christian, bard and sage. 



Each one in turn called thee his own, 
And deemed thee his submissive slave; 
But, when a few short years had flown, 
Of all thy wealth what could he save? 
At most thou gavest him a grave ! 

Ephemeral creatures of a day, 
We move like insects on thy soil, 



MY GARDEN 193 

And wear our little lives away 
In fleeting pleasures or in toil ; 
But naught our destiny can foil. 

A few more Springs thy buds shall quicken, 
A few more Summers bring thy bloom, 
A few more Autumn suns shall thicken 
The clusters ripening in thy gloom, — 
When I for strangers must make room! 

When other eyes shall see the vision 
Of Rotheck's pyramid of snow, 
And watch the roseate hues elysian 
Creep over it at evening's glow, 
As o'er its crest the sun sinks low. 

Another then will pluck the flowers 
Whose seeds my loving hand hath sown; 
Another, through the mid-day hours, 
Will hear the honey bee's dull drone 
Where other roses shall have blown. 

These mountains then will still be lifting 
Their ice-crowned summits to the sky; 
The fleecy clouds will still be drifting 
Above their peaks and pastures high; 
But they will heed not where I lie. 



194 MY GARDEN 

Even thou wilt never miss thy master! 
Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same, 
The season's round will move no faster, 
No bud will quench its torch of flame, 
And naught will change here but a name. 

Yet all who shall with joy succeed me 
In their turn must thy charms resign, 
When, as to all who now precede me, 
Death shall have made the fatal sign 
To join the ever-lengthening line. 

We " owners," then, are but thy tenants 
Despite our purchase and our pride; 
To thee what is our transient presence ? 
Thou carest not if we abide 
Among thy roses, or have died. 

Hence, let me drain in fullest measure 
Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine! 
To-day at least I hold thy treasure; 
To-day with truth I call thee mine; 
To-morrow's sun may never shine. 



THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUN- 
RISE 

Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms 

Indent the western sky : 
The jewelled gifts of countless storms 

Upon their summits lie. 

The sinking moon, with fading scars, 
Hath touched their frosty spires ; 

Around them pale the wearied stars, 
Like waning bivouac fires. 

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one, 
Like rose leaves half unfurled, 

Announce the coming of the sun 
To an awakening world. 

The chief peak now hath caught the glow, 

And, soft, o'er sloping walls 
And buttresses of dazzling snow, 

The flood of splendor falls; 



196 THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN 

While miles of tender pink and gold 
Incrust the blue of space, 

And bands of amethyst enfold 

Each mountan's massive base. 



Gone are the tents that pierced the skies; 

But in their place, more fair, 
Transfigured flowers of Paradise 

Bloom in the crystal air. 



OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran 

PROLOGUE 

Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minne- 
singers, loved a beautiful woman, named Sabina, 
who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the 
poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs 
by writing poems on her coquetry and cruelty. 
Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven him his 
satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese 
prince, " Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also 
hated Oswald for opposing his political plans. Ac- 
cordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce 
the poet to come to her under a pretence of renew- 
ing their former love. To effect this, she wrote him 
a letter expressing her undying affection for him, 
and begging him to meet her near Meran. The plot 
was successful, and Oswald fell completely into their 
power. By Frederick's orders he was at once im- 
prisoned in the dungeon of Schloss Forst, and sub- 
jected to tortures which crippled him for the rest of 
his life. 



ig8 OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 

" Oswald von Wolkenstein ! 
Last of a gifted line, 
Years have gone by since we parted in hate; 
What have they taught to me? 
This, that all's naught to me 
Save what you brought to me, — 
Love and love's fate. 
Can you that love forget? 
Know that I love you yet! 
If you my passion share, 
Linger no longer there; 
Fearless to do and dare, 
Come, ere too late ! 



" Near the old Roman Road 
Up which the legions strode, 
Where the first vine-covered terraces rise, 
Stands a grim fortress tall, 
Which, like a mountain wall, 
Though scarred by many a ball, 
Capture defies ! 
' Forst ' is the name it bears ; 
Brilliant the fame it wears; 
Thither, — our trysting place — , 
Ride at your swiftest pace; 
Come to my fond embrace! 
My love your prize ! " 



OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 199 

Who could such words suspect? 
Who could that call reject? 
Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul! 
Gone is the pain of years; 
Vanished his jealous fears; 
Smiles have replaced his tears; 
Lost self-control; 
Slave to his passion's past, 
Vows to the winds are cast; 
Faithless, she holds him still; 
Absent, she sways his will; 
Traitress, with subtle skill 
Plavs she her role. 



Where Etsch and Eisack meet, 
Mingling their waters fleet, 
Opens the valley that leads to Meran; 
As its red cliffs divide, 
Castles on either side 
(Each a strong chieftain's pride) 
Threaten his plan; 
Yet, where the shadows sleep 
Under each dungeon keep, 
Up through the land of wine, 
Blest with both palm and pine, 
Oswald von Wolkenstein 
Rides to Terlan. 



200 OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 

Here falls his gallant horse, 
Killed by his headlong course; 
Is it a warning to halt and retreat? 
Yet who, when passion pleads, 
Ever such warning heeds? 
What though a dozen steeds 
Drop at his feet? 
Hence, while the peasants stare, 
Buys he their swiftest mare; 
And, as the pavement rings 
With the bright gold he flings, 
He to the saddle springs, 
Never so fleet! 



Now, lover, pause for breath! 
Folly may here mean death! 
Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers; 
Here let thy pace be slow ; 
Frederick, thy crafty foe, 
Plots there to lay thee low, 
Fearing thy powers; 
He of the " empty purse ", 
Stung by thy biting verse, 
Using a woman's hate, 
Offers a tempting bait; 
Both thy approach await, 
Counting the hours ! 



OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 201 

Dark is the starless night; 
Only one feeble light 
Burns at the grating surmounting the door; 
Has his advance been heard? 
Was that a whispered word? 
What in that shadow stirred? 
Shall he explore? 
Fie ! when a prize so fair 
Doubtless awaits him there, 
Shall he now hesitate 
Here, at Forst's very gate, 
Fearing to test his fate? 
No, nevermore! 



Hark! 'tis a gruff command, 
Loosing an ambushed band; 
Seizing, they drag him, disarmed, to the court ; 
Brightly the torches flare, 
Flinging a ruddy glare 
On a proud, mocking pair, 
Watching the sport; 
God, can this thing be true? 
She with this hostile crew ! 
" Faithless and shameless one, 
Thou hast my life undone " ! 
" Poet, thy race is run ", 
Is her retort. 



202 OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 

Barred is the iron door ! 
On the damp dungeon floor 
Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong, 
Lies in a loathsome cave, 
Dark as a living grave, 
No one to care or save, 
Silenced his song; 
And while they leave him there, 
Crushed by profound despair, 
Princelet and paramour, 
Knowing their prey secure, 
Feeling their vengeance sure, 
Laugh loud and long. 



Who can in words relate 
Oswald's unhappy fate, 
Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze? 
Both on revenge were bent; 
He for a menace sent, 
She for the merriment 
Caused by his lays. 
" Dungeon and torture-rack, 
These shall now pay thee back! 
Minstrel and poet rare, 
Rave in thy mad despair, 
And in that fetid lair 
Finish thy days ! " 



OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER 203 

Vainly he pleads with her ; 
No prayer succeeds with her; 
Useless the joys of their past to rehearse; 
For to increase his woe, 
Frederick, his jealous foe, 
Shares in this cruel show, — 
Fit for God's curse; 
Shameless and treacherous, 
Heartless and lecherous, 
Sabine with fiendish glee, 
Deaf to his every plea, 
Watches his agony, 
Quoting his verse ! 

Broken at last his chain ! 
Ended the poet's pain! 
Freed by a ransom (his relatives' dole), 
Humbled by grief and shame, 
Injured in name and fame, 
Drags he his crippled frame 
Back through Tyrol. 

Then, in a plaintive song 
Chanting his grievous wrong, 
Oswald von Wolkenstein, 
Last of his gifted line, 
Dies in Schloss Hauenstein; 
God rest his soul ! 



AFTER THE VINTAGE 

How can my vineyard's charm be told, 
As it basks in the autumn haze ? 
The Frost King's touch, so light and cold, 
Like that of the Persian king of old, 
Hath turned its roof from green to gold, 
Till the hillside seems ablaze. 



Threading its maze of arbors fair 

Under its saffron bowers, 

I watch, in the crisp, November air, 

Through vine-framed openings here and there 

The ivied walls of castles rare 

And ruined Roman towers. 



Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky, 
White are the mountain walls, 
Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie 
Lavishly spread on the forests high, 
Where leaves by millions flame and die, 
As the chill of Autumn falls. 



AFTER THE VINTAGE 205 

Over the slopes in sun and shade 
The terraced vines descend, 
Like stately steps of a broad cascade, 
Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed 
In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade, 
Where red and amber blend. 



I love to see, from the rising sun 

Each terrace gain its crown, 

When the splendid dawn hath just begun, 

From the crest of the mountain it hath won, 

To gild the vine-rows one by one, 

As the mellow glow creeps down. 

And when the day's receding light 

Deserts the vale below, 

I trace its noiseless, upward flight 

Through darkening zones of foliage bright, 

Till all the world is lost in night 

Save pyramids of snow. 



THE PASSING MOON 

In my loggia bright I watch to-night 

The full moon sailing by ; 

From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak 

It slipped to the open sky, 

And now rides free in a clear, blue sea, 

With not an island nigh. 



Through pearly haze its light displays 

Each buttressed mountain side, 

And softly shines through stately pines 

Where feudal castles hide, 

And every height grows dazzling white 

In the foam of a silver tide. 



From the eastern side of the valley wide 

To its snow-capped western rim 

It will hold its way, till the dawning day 

Shall have made its disk grow dim; 

Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view 

Behind the mountain's brim. 



THE PASSING MOON 207 

Whence did it climb on its path sublime, 

Ere it left that icy height? 

And where will it go, when yonder snow 

Is reached in the morning light? 

Will its face elsewhere be just as fair, 

When here it is lost to sight? 

Why should I ask? Tis a fruitless task; 

Enough that its splendor falls 

On me to-night in my loggia bright, 

Till the scene my soul enthralls; 

'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set 

Behind those glittering walls. 

And even when it sinks again 

Below that stainless crest, 

It will seem at last to have safely passed 

To a haven of peace and rest, 

Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal 

In the kingdom of the blest. 

I also know not where I go, 
Nor whence I came, or why, 
Nor can I guess what happiness 
Or strange, new world may lie 
Beyond the vale through which I sail, 
Beneath another sky; 



208 THE PASSING MOON 

But as the moon, which all too soon 

Sinks down the west for me, 

To other eyes appears to rise 

And glide on fair and free, 

So the frail boat in which I float, 

Though tempest-worn it be, 

May cross life's brink, and seem to sink, 

Yet sail another sea. 



AUTUMN IN MERAN 

The vintage time is gone, but not its glory ; 
The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom; 
Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story, 
Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom. 



The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains 
Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold ; 
Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains, 
Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold. 



Above the vines the mountain sides are blending 
The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow, 
In variegated zones their hues ascending 
From radiant roses to eternal snow. 



Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping, 
A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide, — 
High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping, 
Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide. 



210 AUTUMN IN MERAN 

In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river 
Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls; 
While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver, 
Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls. 

Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious, 
Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down; 
Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious, 
In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown. 



THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZA- 
BETH. MERAN 

She is seated by the river 
In a robe of spotless white, 
With her lovely face illumined 
By the evening's tender light; 
But her eyes are full of sadness, 
As if weary of the day, 
And her gaze is toward the ocean, 
While the river glides away. 

At her feet are beds of flowers, 
Overhead are stately trees 
Whose protecting branches murmur 
With the passing of the breeze ; 
Though her hand retains a volume, 
From its page her glances stray, 
For her thoughts are with the ocean, 
As the river flows away. 

As I view her chastened features, 
I can feel the rising tears 



212 STATUE OF EMPRESS ELIZABETH 

At the thought of all her anguish 

Through a martyrdom of years; 

For her joys were writ in water, — 

Too impermanent to stay, 

And were swept toward sorrow's ocean, 

Ere her youth had passed away. 

She was captured in the morning 
Of her childhood's careless age, 
And imprisoned in a palace 
Like a linnet in a cage ; 
And its gilded bars confined her 
To a Court's prescribed display, 
Which her simple nature hated, 
As the slow years crept away. 

Thus her heart grew always sadder, 
Till her sorrows, one by one, 
Reached at last their tragic climax 
In the murder of her son; 
And this broken-hearted woman, 
As a madman's victim, lay 
By Geneva's placid waters, 
While her life-blood ebbed away ! 

Hence her marble face seems troubled, 
As she gazes down the stream, 



STATUE OF EMPRESS ELIZABETH 213 

Like an angel who hath wakened. 
From a fearful, earth-born dream; 
She is waiting for the sunset 
Of her tempest-darkened day, 
But her soul is with the ocean, 
Where all rivers wend their way. 



THE OUTCASTS 

The smile of God was in the air ; 
Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue, 
The valley lay, divinely fair, 
Beneath a cloudless vault of blue ; 
And singing, like a bird set free, 
The river hurried to the sea. 



Through Alpine ether, crystal clear, 
The genial sun of South Tyrol 
Diffused its blessed warmth and cheer, 
Enriching body, mind and soul, 
While music floated o'er the stream, 
And made such beauty seem a dream. 



Enraptured with the sun's caress 

And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow, 

In careless quest of happiness 

The gay world sauntered to and fro, 

Or, seated on the well-kept strand, 

Enjoyed the music of the band. 



THE OUTCASTS 

Upon a bench, remote from those 
Whose dress betokened rank or wealth, 
Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose 
Betrayed a fruitless search for health, — 
An aged couple, near their end, 
United, yet without a friend. 

But still they bravely tried to smile, 

— So warm the sun, so fair the scene! — 

They could be happy yet a while, 

Ere death's cold shadow crept between; 

And music's softly rhythmic flow 

Recalled their youth of long ago. 

" Begone ! " a watchman's voice exclaimed ; 
" Your rustic garb is much too poor ; 
How comes it, you are not ashamed 
In such a place to play the boor? 
From company like this withdraw! 
Obey the mandate of the law ! " 

The startled strangers meekly rose 
And moved away with downcast eyes, 
Too wonted to such cruel blows 
To manifest the least surprise; 
Too humbled to inquire why ; 
Too timid to attempt reply. 



215 



216 THE OUTCASTS 

Poor outcasts from that joyous stage 

Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease, 

With faltering steps, and bowed with age, 

They vanished slowly 'neath the trees; 

But neither scanned the other's face, 

For fear a falling tear to trace. 

Farewell, sweet, music-laden air, 
And sunshine on the sheltered strand! 
I follow where that outcast pair 
Are walking sadly, hand in hand; 
For me your vaunted charm hath fled, 
While they remain uncomforted. 



HEIMWEH 

I dwell in a region of valleys fair, 

Of stately forests and mountains bold, 

Of churches filled with treasures rare, 

And storied castles centuries old; 

But now and then, when the sun sinks low, 

And the vesper bell is softly rung, 

I think of the days of long ago, 

And yearn for the land where I was young. 



I live where the sun shines bright and warm 

On feathery palms and terraced vines, 

Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm 

And the sough of the wind through northern pines ; 

And though my ear hath wonted grown 

To the accents strange of an alien tongue, 

No speech hath half so sweet a tone 

As the language learned when I was young. 



I live in a land where men are kind, 
And friends increase, as the years roll on, 



218 HEIMWEH 

Yet of them all not one I find 
So dear as those of the days now gone ; 
And so I think, as the sun sinks low, 
And the curfew bell of my life is rung, 
I shall turn to my home of long ago, 
And die in the land where I was young. 



MY LIBRARY 

Shrine of my mind, my Library ! 
Each morn I greet thee with delight, 
When, soul-refreshed, I bring to thee 
The benediction of the night; 
Encompassed by thy sheltering walls, 
'Mid books whose interest enthralls, 
Life's shadow from my spirit falls. 



Behold! above the wooded height 
The sun-god's glittering disk appears, 
And at a bound its flood of light 
The intervening valley clears; 
Enveloped in its noiseless tide, 
Each castle on the mountain side 
Stands forth in splendor, glorified. 



How welcome are the yellow waves 
That through the eastern windows pour 
And, with a warmth my nature craves, 
Transmute to gold the polished floor ! 



220 MY LIBRARY 

Then mount to gild my desk, my chair, 

And e'en the spotless paper there, 

Which soon my written thought must bear. 

In serried ranks around me rise 
Two thousand tried and trusty friends; 
Instructive, famous, witty, wise, 
Each gladly his assistance lends 
To suit, at will, my varying mood ; 
But none that aid will e'er intrude, 
Or break, unsought, my solitude. 

Some speak of problems of the soul, — 

Profound, insoluble, sublime; 

Some tell of Law's supreme control; 

And some retrace through distant time 

The evolution of mankind, 

And in its ever-broadening mind 

A hope for future triumphs find. 

A few the noble deeds rehearse 

Of heroes famed in peace or war ; 

While many in inspiring verse 

Show heights to which the soul may soar; 

But all with serious thoughts are filled, 

And some hold truths, from life distilled, 

Whose power my heart hath often thrilled. 



MY LIBRARY 221 

By such companions cheered and blest, 
How vapid seems the listless throng 
Of those who, tortured by unrest, 
Find life too dull and days too long, 
And idly frittering time away, 
As scandal-mongers, rend and slay 
The friends they dined with yesterday! 



My Library ! to thee I turn, 
As turns the needle toward the pole, 
And feel my heart within me yearn 
For all thou offerest to the soul ; 
Why should I join in feverish haste 
The crowd for which I have no taste, 
The precious boon of life to waste? 



Yet not as an austere recluse, — 
Still less as one who hates mankind — , 
Do I thy peaceful precincts choose; 
But as a student, who can find 
No joys in Vanity's gay Fair 
That for an instant can compare 
With those thou askest me to share. 



Moreover, welcome as the sun 

Are friends whose love I prize and hold; 



222 MY LIBRARY 

Their visits I would never shun; 
To them my heart grows never cold; 
And whether they have wealth, or fame, 
Or bear a plain or titled name, 
To me will always be the same. 

Nor am I ever quite alone 
When thus ensconced among my books ; 
A kindred mind there meets my own, 
And with me toward the sunset looks ; 
With blazing logs the hearth is bright, 
A treasured volume is in sight; 
Hence to the outer world good night! 



TOUT PASSE 

Once more I watch the crystal stream 

I watched in days gone by; 
Once more its waves reflect the gleam 

Of Autumn's sunset sky; 
Again its banks of gold and green 

Seem bursting into flame, — 
And yet for me the lovely scene 

Can never be the same. 

The waves that gleamed here long ago 

Have reached a distant sea; 
The leaves of that first autumn glow 

Have fallen from the tree ; 
The birds which charmed me with their song 

Have long since elsewhere flown, 
And I amid a careless throng 

Am standing here alone. 

This sparkling flood can never quite 

Replace the stream of old; 
These radiant leaves, however bright, 

Wear not the old-time gold; 



224 TOUT PASSE 

For evening's light can ne'er retain 
The splendor of the dawn, 

And naught, alas, can bring again 
The faces that are gone. 



BESIDE LAKE COMO 



THE FAUN 

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, 
In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, 
There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, 
A sculptured Faun. 



The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, 
The scent of calycanthus fills the air, 
And on the ivied parapet before him 
Bloom roses fair. 



Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, 
Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, 
And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain 
Meets heaven's blue. 



Across Lake Como's silvered undulation 
The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, 
And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation 
With tender grace. 



228 THE FAUN 

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, 
As if unable longer to be mute, 
Has lifted to his lips in adoration 

His simple flute. 



Ah ! would that I might hear the music stealing 
From yonder artless reed upon the air, — 
The subtle revelation of his feeling, 

While standing there! 



Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, 
When Como's shore held many a hallowed shrine, 
Where such as he were worshipped, — none denying 
Their rights divine. 



That Past is gone ; its sylvan shrines have crumbled ; 
From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled ; 
Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, 
And Pan is dead. 



Yet still he plays, — the coming day adoring, 
With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, 
All past and future happiness ignoring 
Just for to-day's! 



THE FAUN 229 

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining 
Through storm and sunshine thine unchanging smile? 
Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, 
Makes life worth while? 



Impart to me the secret of discerning 
The gold of life, with none of its alloy, 
That I may also satisfy my yearning 
For perfect joy! 

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow, — 
Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill 
My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow 
Bring what it will. 

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, 
Cast over me the spell of thy control, 
And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, 
Thy Pagan soul! 



ISOLA COMACINA 

(The only Island on Lake Como, the Lake Larius of 
the Romans) 

There sleeps beneath Italian skies 
A lovely island rich in fame, 
In days of old a longed-for prize, 
And bearing still an honored name, — 
A spot renowned from age to age, 
An ancient Roman heritage; 

A valued stronghold, for whose sake 

Unnumbered men have fought and died, — 

The Malta of the Larian lake, 

Forever armed and fortified, 

To Como's shores the master-key, 

The guardian of its liberty. 

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, 
Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, 
How different is the scene to-day 
Reflected in its waveless tide, 



ISOLA COMACINA 231 

From that which this historic foss 
Showed mailed soldiers of the Cross! 



Yet still, across the narrow strait, 
Some remnants of the hospice stand, 
Whose ever hospitable gate 
Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, 
Its finely carved, millennial tower 
Enduring to the present hour. 

One gem alone doth Como wear, 
None other need adorn her breast; 
'Tis this, her emerald solitaire, 
Her unique island of the blest, — 
The star beside her crescent shore, 
A thing of beauty evermore. 

On Comacina's peaceful strand 
The coldest heart is moved to pray, 
As softly steals o'er lake and land 
The splendor of departing day, 
And scores of snowy peaks aspire 
To sparkle with supernal fire. 

Then Lario paints for liquid miles 

The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, 



232 ISOLA COMACINA 

Transmutes at once to dimpled smiles 
The sternest of their glacial frowns, 
And often holds, with subtlest art, 
Some Titan's likeness to her heart. 



Fair Comacina, through whose trees 
Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, 
Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, 
And every whispering breeze seems charmed;, 
Can it be true that human blood 
Hath ever stained thy limpid flood? 



Alas ! too often, drenched with gore, 
Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, 
When hostile feet profaned thy shore, 
And each advancing step cost life, 
As prince and peasant, side by side, 
Beat back the Goths' invading tide. 



But why disturb the silent past ? 

Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts? 

Or see in forms by ruins cast 

The phantoms of those warlike hosts? 

For centuries the gentle waves 

Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves. 



ISOLA COMACINA 233 

And what will now thy future be, 
Thou pristine refuge of the brave, 
Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, 
And vainly gave their lives to save ? 
Forget not, thou wast once a gem 
That graced a Caesar's diadem ! 

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes? 
I sometimes long to check the stream 
Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, 
And tell them of my cherished dream, — 
To see upon thy storied height 
A palace worthy of the site ; 

Not meaningless, not merely vast, 
Nor crudely modern in design, 
But something suited to thy past, — 
For highest art a hallowed shrine, 
A classic home of long ago, 
The Tusculum of Cicero. 

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, 

Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, 

And, scattered through the leafy gloom 

Of olive-groves and laurels tall, 

Shall many a marble nymph and faun 

Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn. 



234 ISOLA COMACINA 

So let me dream ! I may not see 
That stately palace crown thy brow, 
Those roses may not bloom for me, 
But, as thou art, I love thee now, 
Content thy future to resign 
To abler portraiture than mine. 

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well! 
Across the water's placid breast 
The music of the vesper-bell 
Invites me to my port of rest; 
Fair jewel of this inland sea, 
May all the gods be good to thee! 



THE OLD CARRIER 

("Old Lucia", who- for many years walked back 
and forth, every day and in all weathers, between 
Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles, bear- 
ing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, 
fell to the ground exhausted, as she was nearing her 
poor home on Christmas Eve, 1907. She died next 
morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she 
fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred 
pounds!) 



Patient toiler on the road, 
Bending 'neath your heavy load, 
Worn and furrowed is your face, 
Slow and tremulous your pace, 
Yet you still pursue your way, 
Bearing burdens day by day, 
With the same pathetic smile, 
Over many a weary mile, 
As you bravely come and go 
To and from Menaggio. 



236 THE OLD CARRIER 

Snowy white, your scanty hair 
Crowns a forehead seamed with care, 
And a look of suffering lies 
In your clear-blue, wistful eyes; 
While your thin and ashen cheek 
Tells the tale you will not speak, 
Of a lodging dark and old, 
And a hearth so bare and cold 
That you often hungry go 
To and from Menaggio. 



Never know you days of rest; 

Ceaseless is your humble quest 

Of the pittance that you ask 

For your arduous daily task. 

Every morning sees your form 

Pass through sunshine or through storm; 

Every evening hears your feet 

Trudging up the darkened street; 

For your gait is always slow, 

Coming from Menaggio. 



Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; 
Once those arms were round and white; 
And the feet, now roughly shod, 
Lightly danced upon the sod, 



THE OLD CARRIER 237 

As to womanhood you grew 
And a lover's rapture knew ; 
For you once were fair, 'tis said, 
Early wooed and early wed, 
And your husband long ago 
Died in old Menaggio. 



Children ? Aye, but not one cares 
How the poor old mother fares! 
You must struggle on alone; 
They have children of their own, 
And for them, devoid of shame, 
All your scanty earnings claim ! 
Can you walk? Then go you must, 
Plodding on through rain and dust, 
Summer heat and winter's snow 
To and from Menaggio! 



Christmas Eve ! Through glistening green 
Gleams a merry, festive scene; 
Trees, with candles burning bright, 
Wake in children's hearts delight. 
Where such peace and comfort reign, 
None observes the window-pane, 
Where your wan face sadly peers 
Through a mist of falling tears 



238 THE OLD CARRIER 

At a joy you never know, 
Carrier from Menaggio ! 



Much that makes those children gay 
You have brought them day by day, 
Thankful that you thus could earn 
Wood to make your hearthstone burn. 
Not for you such food and light, 
Clothing warm and candles bright! 
You are grateful, if you gain 
Bread to stifle hunger's pain. 
Ah ! it was not always so 
In old-time Menaggio ! 



She has turned to climb the hill. 
Stay ! why lies she there so still ? 
Have her old limbs failed at last 
In the chilling wintry blast? 
Since for threescore years and ten 
She has done the work of men, 
'Tis not strange that she should fall 
Weak and helpless by the wall, 
Nevermore to come and go 
To and from Menaggio. 



THE OLD CARRIER 239 

Gently lift her old gray head ! 
Bear her homeward! She is dead. 
Fallen, like a faithful horse 
At the limit of its course ; 
Fallen on the stony road, 
Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; 
And the heart within her breast 
For the first time finds its rest, — 
Rest that it could never know 
Coming from Menaggio! 

Sound again, O Christmas bells! 

" Peace on Earth " your song foretells. 

It has come, in truth, to one 

Whose long pilgrimage is done. 

Merciful her quick release, 

Blessed her eternal peace ! 

Yet I know that, day by day, 

As she no more comes my way, 

I shall miss her, as I go 

To and from Menaggio. 



EVENING ON LAKE COMO 

Beside my garden's ivied wall, 
Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, 
I stand, as evening shadows fall, 
And marvel at the matchless scene, 
While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, 
Perpetual music at my feet. 

The year grows old, — yet on the breeze 
Still floats the perfume of the rose ; 
Still gleams the gold of orange trees, 
Regardless of the Alpine snows ; 
For while, above, Frost reigns as king, 
Below prevails the warmth of Spring. 

In Tremezzina's sheltered bay 
The wintry storms forget to rave; 
Without, — the white caps and the spray, 
Within, — a shore with scarce a wave, — 
A favored spot where tempests cease, 
And Heaven whispers, " Here is Peace." 



EVENING ON LAKE COMO 241 

Across the water's purple bloom 
Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, 
Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom 
With glistening walls of pink and white, — 
The wraith of some celestial strand, 
The fringe of an enchanted land. 

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings 
Its good-night lyric to the lake ; 
A skiff glides by on slender wings 
With scarce a ripple in its wake; 
And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, 
Float idly in an ideal world. 

The swan-like steamers come and go ; 
The ruffled water finds its rest ; 
The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow 
From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; 
And, trembling on the tranquil air, 
Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer. 

Oh, peerless strand ! I yearn no more 
To mingle with the maddened throng ; 
Enough for me this wave-kissed shore, 
The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, 
The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, 
And storied towers of long ago. 



2 4 2 EVENING ON LAKE COMO 

Between me and the world's unrest 
The lake's broad leagues of water lie; 
Above my wave-protected nest 
Serenely bends a cloudless sky ; 
And homeward from life's stormy sea 
The dreams of youth come back to me. 



DELIO PATRI 

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the 
Island of Lake Como, 1910, and belonging formerly 
to a temple of Delian Apollo, — the " Delian Father," 
— which no doubt existed there) 

Once more Lake Como's storied isle 

Reveals the Roman past! 
Again a stone of classic style 

The spade hath upward cast; 
How can such relics thus endure 
Two thousand years of sepulture? 

More eagerly than those who toil 

For nuggets of mere gold, 
We seize and rescue from the soil 

This monument of old, — 
An altar-fragment, much defaced, 
Yet on whose surface words are traced. 

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime 

The legend chiselled there, 
Which now, triumphant over time, 

Still proves the sculptor's care, 



244 DELIO PATRI 

Engraved when on this wave-girt hill 
The Pagan gods were potent still. 

As on their own peculiar page 
The fingers of the blind 

Decipher truths of every age. 
As mind communes with mind, 

So, one by one, these letters spell 

A name the ancient world knew well. 

For " Delio Patri " heads the lines 
Inscribed upon this stone, 

And instantly the mind divines 
What, else, had been unknown, 

Since that familiar name makes clear 

Apollo once was worshipped here; 

Perhaps because the spot suggests 

That other tiny isle, 
Upon whose shore forever rests 

The Sun-God's tender smile, — 
Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, 
Both he and Artemis were born. 

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, 
And lower still we read 

In characters, now half effaced, 
The motive for his deed ; — 



DELIO PATRI 245 

" Onesimus this altar reared 
To One he gratefully revered." 

Faith, grateful reverence, — these are traits 

Worth more than rank or fame, 
And what this brief inscription states 

Does honor to his name, 
And makes us wish still more to know 
Of him who built here long ago. 

"And is this all?" the cynic sneers, 

" The remnant of a shrine? " 
Alas for him who never hears 

Or heeds the world divine 
And in this fragment fails to see 
A stepping-stone to Deity! 



The Sun-God's shrines in ruins lie, 
But not the glorious sun! 

A thousand transient faiths may die, 
All prototypes of One, 

Since under every form and name 

Their essence still remains the same. 



ACQUA FREDDA 

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall 
I pause to feel the mountain breeze, 
And watch the shadows eastward fall 
From immemorial cypress trees. 

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, 
Those dusky phantoms downward creep 
To where, by Lenno's curving bay, 
The peaceful village seems to sleep; 

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow 
Turn crimson 'neath the farther shore, 
And here and there the sunset glow 
Threads diamonds on a dripping oar. 

But now a tremor breaks the spell, 
And stirs to life the languid air, — 
It is the convent's vesper-bell, — 
The plaintive call to evening prayer; 

That prayer which rises like a sigh 
From every sorrow-laden breast, 



ACQUA FREDDA 247 

When twilight dims the garish sky, 
And day is dying in the west. 

Ave Maria ! we who miss 
A mother's love, a mother's care, 
Implore thee, bring us to that bliss 
We fondly hope with thee to share ! 

How sweet and clear, how soft and low 
Those vesper orisons are sung, 
In Rome's grand speech of long ago, 
Forever old, forever young! 

And those who chant, — that exiled band, 
Expelled from France with scorn and hate, 
How fare they in this foreign land ? 
Is life for them disconsolate ? 

Have they escaped the sight of pain, 
Of social strife, of hopeless tears? 
Does life's dark problem grow more plain, 
As pass in prayer the tranquil years? 

I know not ; dare not ask of them ; 
Their souls are read by God alone ; 
But he who would their lives condemn, 
Should pause before he cast a stone. 



248 ACQUA FREDDA 

So full is life of hate and greed, 
So vain the world's poor tinselled show, 
What wonder that some souls have need 
To flee from all its sin and woe? 



I would not join them ; yet, in truth, 
I feel, in leaving them at prayer, 
That something precious of my youth, 
Long lost to me, is treasured there. 



THE POSTERN GATE 

I chose me a lovely garden, 
Beneath whose ivied wall 
A lake's blue wavelets murmur 
As evening shadows fall, — 



A garden, whose leafy windows 
Frame visions of Alpine snow 
On peaks that burn to crimson 
In sunset's afterglow. 



And there, in its sweet seclusion, 
I built me a mansion fair, 
With many a classic statue 
And Eastern relic rare, 



And volumes, whose precious pages 
Hold all that the wise have said, — 
The latest among the living, 
The greatest among the dead. 



25o THE POSTERN GATE 

And I sat in those fragrant arbors 
Of laurel and palm and pine, 
And held in the tranquil twilight 
My darling's hand in mine; 



And said " We will here be happy, 
And let the mad world go; 
Its gold no longer tempts us, 
Still less do it's pomp and show; 



" No more shall its cares annoy us, 
And under these stately trees 
With Nature and Art and Letters 
Our souls shall take their ease." 



But a brood of griefs pursued us, 
Like evil birds of prey; 
They lodged in the trees' tall branches, 
They shadowed the cloudless day; 



They flew to the darkened casement, 
And beat on the wind-swept shade, 
And oft in the sleepless midnight 
We listened and were afraid; 



THE POSTERN GATE 251 

And daily came the tidings 
Of folly and crime and woe, 
And one by one kept dying 
The friends of long ago. 



For the Past is ever one's master, 
And Memory mocks at space, 
And Trouble travels with us, 
However swift our pace ; 



And envy is always envy, 
Though called by a foreign name, 
And perfidy, greed, and malice 
Are everywhere the same. 



I thought I had left behind me 
That gloomy realm of care, 
But really one never leaves it, 
Its shadow is everywhere. 



So I learned at last the lesson 
That walls, and gates, and keys 
Can never exclude life's sorrows 
They enter as they please. 



252 THE POSTERN GATE 

And if we ever acquire 
The perfect life we crave, 
A subtle warning tells us 
Its background is the grave. 



Perhaps I have almost reached it, 
For when I am walking late, 
I see a shrouded stranger 
Beside my postern gate; 



And a sudden chill creeps o'er me 
At sight of that figure grim, 
For I fancy that he is waiting 
For me in the twilight dim; 



And I know he will one day beckon 
With gesture of command, 
And I shall follow him mutely 
Away to the Silent Land, 



And all that I here have treasured 
In fountain, and tree, and stone 
Will pass to the hands of others, 
Whom I have never known. 



THE POSTERN GATE 253 

Hence over his sombre features 
There flickers a ghostly smile, 
As if he would say, " What matter? 
Your cares are not worth while; 

" The trouble which gives you anguish, 
The woes o'er which you weep, 
Will all be soon forgotten 
In my long, dreamless sleep. 

" Enjoy the fleeting moment ; 

I cannot always wait, 

And the glow of the coming sunset 

Is gilding the postern gate." 



UNDINE 

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call 
Murmurs caressingly under my wall, 
Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, 
Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate? 
What is the cause of this passionate strain, 
Voiced by thy wavelets again and again? 

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, 
Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn; 
White, on the rocks of the fountain below, 
Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; 
Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, 
Sung so alluringly under my wall. 

Leaf-woven ladders of ivy-wreathed vines 
Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; 
Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, 
Tempting the lover to clamber with ease 
Up to the garden, to woo and to take 
Lovely Undine away to the lake. 



UNDINE 



255 



Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, 
Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, 
Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, 
White gleam their feet on its background of green ; 
Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, 
Never is reached by their glittering spray. 

Hear you that music,. half song and half sigh? 
Sylph-like Undine is making reply : — 
" Though I so motionless sit here above, 
I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; 
Others regard me as passionless stone, 
Only to thee shall my nature be known. 

" Men who behold me, praise merely my art, 
Never suspecting I too have a heart; 
Under the marble the world cannot see 
All I am keeping there only for thee ; 
Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; 
Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet. 

" Under the wall thou hast bravely assailed, 
Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, 
Passes this fountain; though cradled in snows, 
Straight to thy waters it secretly flows ; 
Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, 
On that swift current I come to thee, dear ! " 



256 UNDINE 

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; 
Silence and mystery brood over all; 
Still my Undine sits facing the dawn; 
'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone, — 
Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, 
Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep. 



JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA 

Day by day, 

As if in May, 
We sail Azzano's beautiful bay; 

High and low 

The mountains show- 
Luminous fields of stainless snow, 
But the air is soft, and the sun is warm, 
And the lake is free from wind and storm. 

Far and nigh, 

Deep and high, 
The Alps invade both lake and sky; 

Base to base 

Their forms we trace, 
These in water, those in space, — 
Duplicate peaks on single shores, 
As shadow sinks, and substance soars. 

To and fro 
We idly go, 
Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; 



258 JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA 

Here and there 

Halting where 
The vision seems supremely fair; 
Happy to let our little boat 
In a flood of opaline splendor float. 



Far away 

Seems to-day 
The clamorous world of work and play; 

Ours indeed 

A different creed 
From that of the modern god of Speed, 
Whose converts suffer such grievous waste 
In strenuous labor and feverish haste! 



East or west, 

A tranquil nest, 
When curfew rings, is always best, 

A landscape fair, 

A volume rare, 
And a kindred heart, one's peace to share, — 
What is there better from life to take 
In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake? 



THE WANDERER 

Wandering minstrel at my gate, 
Shivering in the winter gloaming, 
How appalling seems your fate, — 
Destined to be always roaming, 
Singing for a bit of bread 
And a shelter for your head ! 



Your sweet voice is all you own, 

Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, 

And you are not quite alone, 

For a dog your crust is sharing; 

Yet o'er many a weary mile 

You have brought .... a song and smile! 



I, who have abundant land, 
Home with comforts beyond measure, 
Gardens, loggias, and a strand 
Where a boat awaits my pleasure, 
Wonder what would be your story, 
Were I tramp, and you signore! 



2 6o THE WANDERER 

Would you weary of control? 
Long to slip your gilded tether, 
And with Leo once more stroll, 
Heedless of the wind and weather? 
You could hardly do that all, 
Once ensconced behind my wall- 

Every one must make a choice, 
Life is based on compensation; 
You have nothing but your voice, 
I have more, . . . but more vexation! 
Minstrel, you at least are free; 
Give your smile to slaves like me! 



SECLUSION 

Shut out the World, shut in the Home! 
The sea is deeper than its foam; 
Retain the gem, reject the paste; 
Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, 
Its tumult and its senseless waste. 

Within are love, and books, and flowers, — 
Creators of life's happiest hours; 
Without are those whose baneful call, 
If once they pass within thy wall, 
May blight the beauty of it all. 

Think not they come for love of thee ! 
They seek from ennui to be free, 
To ask some boon, or tell some tale 
Which, true or false, will rarely fail 
To leave behind a poisoned trail. 

What else indeed can such as they 
Invent to pass their time away? 



262 SECLUSION 

Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, 
Their reading is the daily press, 
Their mental life a wilderness. 

What though their dwellings rise near thine ? 

Propinquity is not a sign 

Of loyal hearts or kindred views; 

Thou surely hast a right to choose 

Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse. 

Decline to let those mar thy joy, 
Whose manners wound, and words annoy; 
The vapid, heartless throng eschew; 
Admit alone, — alas, how few! — 
The really kind, the really true. 

Yet when did ever a recluse 
Escape the baffled crowd's abuse? 
The social world will ne'er condone 
Thy preference to live alone 
Amid resources of thine own. 

Well, let it scoff, malign, or . . . worse! 
Thou hast an independent purse; 
Alike to thee its smile or sneer, 
It hath no power to cause thee fear, 
Nor is its censure worth a tear. 



SECLUSION 263 

Hence, 'mid thy flowers, books, and trees 
Strive not the multitude to please; 
Regard its humors as the spray 
Which winds blow lightly o'er the bay; 
Live thine own life, and win the day ! 



ONE MORE 

With a smile and a kiss he went away ; 
At the gate he turned and waved his hand, 
Then plunged once more in the sordid fray, 
Whose strain she could not understand. 

She really thought that she loved him well, 
But she loved herself and children more^ 
And realized only when he fell 
What all his friends had known before. 

He had always hid his own distress, 
And answered us with a brave " Not yet," 
For boys must play and girls must dress, 
As do their mates in the social set. 

At least she claimed that this was so, 
And he too dearly loved them all 
To spoil their place in the passing show, 
And so rode on for a fatal fall. 

He had earned enough for a simple life, 

If only they a word had said, 

So weary was he of the strife; 

But they were dumb, and he ... is dead ! 



ONE MORE 265 

Yes, he is gone, and they are here ; 
And now the purse he died to fill 
Will keep them well for many a year,— - 
Of course submissive to " God's will " ! 

One victim more in the cruel race 
With rivals he himself despised, 
For children who can ne'er replace 
The father whom they sacrificed. 



UNDER THE PLANE TREE 

Under my wall 

And plane-tree tall 
The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall; 

In they creep, 

Out they sweep, 
And ever their rhythmic measure keep, 
As the light breeze over the water steals, 
And fills the sails of a score of keels. 

Soft and low, 

In the evening glow, 
Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow; 

Clear and sweet, 

Fair and fleet, 
It came from the mountain, the lake to meet, 
And here, where ivy and roses twine, 
Streamlet and lake their lives combine. 

One by one, 
In shade or sun, 
Each river of life its course must run; 



I 



UNDER THE PLANE TREE 267 

Slow or fast, 

Small or vast, 
All come to the waiting sea at last, — 
The source from which they first arose, 
The home in which they find repose. 



"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE " 

Marble fragment, freed at last 
From thy prison of the past, 
By a spade-thrust brought to light 
After centuries of night, — 
Let me take thee in my hand, 
And thy legend understand. 

On thy mutilated face 

It is difficult to trace 

All that once was graven here; 

But at least two words are clear, — 

Reading still, as all agree, 

"Conjugi Carissimae." 

" To my well-beloved wife " ; — 
Only this; but of her life, 
Rank or title, age or name, 
Or the place from which she came, 
Nothing further can be known 
Than is taught us by this stone. 



"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" 269 

Touching words they are, which tell 

Of a husband's last farewell; 

Cry of a despairing heart 

That has seen a wife depart 

On death's dark, uncharted sea; — 

" Conjugi Carissimae ! " 

Was this lady still a bride, 
Or a matron, when she died? 
Had she children? Was she fair? 
Bright with joy, or bowed with care? 
Ah, pathetic mystery! 
" Conjugi Carissimae." 

Yet, in truth, what matters all, 
Save the fact these words recall? 
She was loved, — a consort mourned 
In the home she had adorned; 
And her husband long ago 
Left the words which tell us so. 

Strange, that these alone remain, — 
Words of mingled love and pain! 
Time, which broke or blurred the rest, 
Tenderly has spared the best; 
For what better could there be? 
"Conjugi Carissimae." 



270 "CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" 

Ancient relic, white and pure, 
May thine epitaph endure, 
While the lake with dimpled smile 
Mirrors this historic isle! 
Precious are thy words of old, 
Worthy of a script of gold! 

Soon upon this island's shrine 
Shalt thou like a jewel shine, — 
Dearest of its treasure-trove, 
Emblem of a deathless love 
From its sepulchre set free, — 
"Conjugi Carissimae." 



THE PAGAN PAST 

What sylvan god was worshipped here? 
What nymph once made this grove her home, 
And bathed within its fountain clear, 
When Caesar ruled the world at Rome? 

Did Pan frequent this charming site, 
So hidden from the haunts of men? 
Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night 
Within this moon-illumined glen? 

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines 
Form trellised screens for distant snow, 
And trace in arabesque designs 
Their profiles on the Alpine glow ? 

So sure were Dryads to select 
A region thus supremely fair! 
So apt were mortals to erect 
In such a place a shrine for prayer ! 

The two millenniums have not brought 
Diminished splendor to this bay; 
The strand which Pliny loved and sought 
Is no less beautiful to-day. 



272 THE PAGAN PAST 

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, 
And white magnolia-blossoms gleam 
Above my wave-lapped garden wall, 
I seem to see, as in a dream, 

The kneeling forms of those who laid 
Their floral offerings on that shrine, 
And here their grateful tribute paid 
To beauty, rightly deemed divine. 

Doth some Divinity each morn 

Cast over me its ancient spell, 

That this sweet landscape seems forlorn 

Without the gods who loved it well? 

Men tell me they are dead and gone, 
But when my soul is moved to pray, 
I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, 
They are not very far away. 

For I, who love this classic lake, 
And cruise along its storied shores, 
See Roman galleys in my wake, 
And hear the stroke of phantom oars. 

It matters not which way I steer, 
Or if my course be slow or fast, 
The Pagan world seems always near ; 
I sail, companioned by the Past. 



RETIREMENT 

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, 
Take me once more, like a child, to your breast ! 
Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, 
Welcome me back, if it be not too late, 
Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, 
Hush of the forest and cadence of streams ! 



What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste? 

Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, 

Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, 

Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, 

Idle frivolity, senseless display, 

Youth without reverence, faith in decay. 

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, 
Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, 
Gladly go back to the humming of bees, 
Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, 
Gladly dispense with the voices of men, 
Thankful to hear only Nature again. 



274 RETIREMENT 

Out from the mob with its furious pace 

Into the cool, quiet reaches of space; 

Rid of Society's glittering chains, 

Fleeing a prison and finding the plains ; 

Far from the clangor of murderous cars, 

Losing the limelight, but gaining . . . the stars ! 

Others may live in the turbulent throng, 
Others may struggle to rectify wrong, 
Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, 
I too have striven and laughed in my day ; 
But of life's blessings I crave now the best, — 
Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest. 



IN NOVEMBER 

Under my trees of green and gold 

I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, 

With never a hint of winter's cold, 

Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze 

Which spreads from the gleaming lake below 

To gild the edge of the distant snow. 

Closed are the stately inns once more ; 
Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest ; 
Many have gone to a southern shore, 
Some to the east and some to the west; 
But the smiling landlords count their gains, 
And we know well that the best remains. 



For the walls are lined with precious books, 
And the hearth and home are always here, 
And the garden hath a score of nooks, 
Where flowers bloom throughout the year; 
And now that the restless crowd is gone 
I hear the flute of my rustic Faun. 



276 IN NOVEMBER 

Why should I grieve, if from my trees 
The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one ? 
Through the clearer space with greater ease 
I feel the warmth of the genial sun; 
And though the plane-trees stand bereft, 
The pines and cypresses are left. 

Does the gay world leave us ? Well, good-bye ! 

It will come again — perhaps too soon! 

We have the mountains, lake, and sky, 

And solitude is a precious boon. 

Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet, — 

Their memory, after all, is sweet. 



THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 

Over the water the shadows are creeping. 
Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, 
Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, 
Only the fountain sings on as before. 

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, 

Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, 

Voices of absent ones seem to be calling : — 

" Come to us ! Come ! thou hast waited too long." 



Vainly I call it a childish delusion, 
Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, 
Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion 
Voices I loved in the land of my birth. 



Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, 
Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, 
Waking within me a mingled emotion, — 
Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear; 



278 THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me 
Many, alas ! will await me no more ; 
Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, 
Cold are the arms that embraced me before ! 

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, 
Dim and unknown is the opposite shore, 
But in the fatherland some are still keeping 
Lights in the window and watch at the door. 



THE CASCADE 

From the mountain gray 

It has made its way 
To my garden green and cool, 

And there, from the edge 

Of a rocky ledge 
Leaps down to a crystal pool. 



With a plunging flash 

It falls, to dash 
That crystal into foam; 

And then at a bound 

Slips under ground 
To the lake, — its final home. 



In the morning light, 

In the silent night, 
When the moonlight gems the scene, 

It laughs and sings, 

And a light spray flings 
O'er stately walls of green. 



2 8o THE CASCADE 

For in and out, 

And round about, 
Grow flowers, plants, and trees, 

From the lowly moss 

To the boughs that toss 
Their leaves in the passing breeze. 

On its outer zone 

Of massive stone 
Two marble statues stand, — 

The silver sheen 

Of the pool between, — 
One form on either hand. 

One of the pair 

Is a woman fair, 
With parted, smiling lips; 

For her each hour 

A honied flower, 
And she the bee that sips. 

The other, a faun, 

From whom is gone 
The power to frankly smile; 

For whom each day, 

As it drags away, 
Makes life still less worth while. 



THE CASCADE 281 

The face of the one 

Is like the sun, 
With its warmth, and light, and cheer; 

But the faun looks down 

With ugly frown, 
And his lips retain a sneer. 

Youth and age, 

Child and sage ! 
The former with life unknown; 

The latter burnt 

By lessons learnt, 
With a heart now turned to stone. 

Yet the torrent speeds, 

And never heeds 
The statues' smiles or sneers; 

They come and go, 

But the water's flow 
Has lasted a thousand years. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 

Poor, little bird ! the chase is ended ; 
No longer hast thou cause for fear; 
Within these walls thou art befriended; 
No sportsmen can molest thee here. 



Without, they doubtless still await thee, 
And scan with eager eyes the sky; 
Sweet, winsome thing ! how can they hate thee ? 
Why should they wish to see thee die? 

So limp and helpless ! wilt thou never 
Recover from thy fear and flight? 
How breathless was thy last endeavor 
To reach this shelter, when in sight! 

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; 
Do I, too, seem like all the rest ? 
Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me . . . 
Alas! there's blood upon thy breast. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 283 

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently 
Uplift and hold thee in my hand; 
Thou gazest on me so intently, 
Thou must my motive understand. 

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; 
This wing will never rise again; 
In vain thy look, so wild and pleading! 
I cannot cure or ease thy pain. 

Too well the hunters have succeeded; 
Thy little life is ebbing fast; 
My presence now is all unheeded ; 
'Tis over ; . . . thou art dead at last. 

Yet thus, within my garden dying, 
Thy fate hath caused me less regret 
Than that of all thy comrades, lying 
Half dead and mangled in the net ! 

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly 
The lofty Alps to seek the sun? 
Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, 
Or is her life-course also run? 

Within the voiceless empyrean 
No birds are passing on the breeze; 
No songster lifts its joyous psean, 
And silent stand my empty trees; 



284 BIRD SLAUGHTER 

For at the base of every mountain, 
Where southward-moving birds repose, 
In every grove, at every fountain, 
Lurk merciless, insatiate foes. 

With cruel craft those foes surround them, 
Ensnaring hundreds in a day, 
Indifferent if they tear and wound them, 
Proud only of the heaps they slay. 

What care these brutes if songs of rapture 
From thrush and lark are no more heard? 
What matter if their modes of capture 
Denude the land of every bird? 

Whole regions, where they once abounded, 
Are now as silent as the tomb ; 
The birds have vanished, — slain or wounded, 
Pursued, by thousands, to their doom. 

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, 
The Nemesis of Nature wakes; 
Her flawless balance must be righted; 
If Ceres gives, . . . she also takes! 

Still worse, a moral degradation 
Thus cradled, vitiates the race; 
Among the rising generation 
A lust for slaughter grows apace. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 285 

Even children kill the birds thus captured, — 
And, since none censures or withstands, 
They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured 
To crush them in their blood-smeared hands ! 

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, 
Its frail legs raw from rasping strings! 
A carriage comes, — he flings within it 
The tortured bird ... to sell its wings! 

And oft as it may be rejected, 
The little victim, mad with thirst, 
Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, 
Till pain and hunger do their worst. 

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman ! 
Beneath you swells a threatening flood; 
If you and yours remain inhuman, 
It yet may drown you in your blood. 

You smile, and call this sentimental; 
You will not smile in later times! 
For cruelty, so fundamental, 
Already breeds the worst of crimes. 



THE IRON CROWN 

On the classic shore of Como, 
'Neath a headland steep and bold, 
Which, though leaden at the dawning, 
In the sunset turns to gold, 
Nestles beautiful Varenna, 
Still invested with renown 
By the legend that connects it 
With the Lombards' Iron Crown. 

Far above it on the mountain 
Stands the castle, old and gray, 
With its battlements in ruin 
And its towers in decay; 
But a subtle charm still lingers 
Round that residence sublime, 
And the beauty of its story 
Is triumphant over time. 

As we trace its ancient pavement, 
As we tread its roofless halls, 
How alluring is the figure 
Which this castle still recalls ! 



THE IRON CROWN 287 

For 'tis Queen Theodelinda 
Whom its ruined arches frame, 
And the passing breeze seems laden 
With the music of her name. 



As we gaze from ivied ramparts 
On the storied lake below, 
We forget the world about us 
For the world of long ago, 
When the Lombards had descended 
From the mountains to the plain, 
And all Italy lay mourning 
For the thousands of her slain ; 

When their brave, ambitious leader, 
Not content to make his home 
By these northern lakes of beauty, 
Had resolved to capture Rome ! 
For no longer could her legions 
His resistless course withstand, 
And the road lay open, southward, 
To the conquest of the land. 

When his valiant host stood ready 
And impatient for the start, 
What reversed their king's decision ? 
What so changed the warlord's heart ? 



288 THE IRON CROWN 

'Twas the passionate entreaty 
Of his wife, — a Christian queen; 
'Twas the conquest of the pagan 
By the lowly Nazarene. 

Through her prayers Rome's aged Pontiff 
From the threatened doom was freed; 
By her aid the Church was strengthened 
As the king professed its creed; 
And Saint Peter's great successor, 
Thus preserved from grievous loss, 
Gave to her, his faithful daughter, 
A true relic of the Cross. 

What to pious Theodelinda 
Could be recompense more sweet 
Than the nail, forever sacred, 
That once pierced her Saviour's feet ? 
Which, when rounded to a circlet, 
(To fine wire beaten down,) 
Then became the precious basis 
Of the Lombards' Iron Crown. 

Through the ages that have followed 
What a line of the Renowned 
Have been proud to wear this emblem, 
As they, each in turn, were crowned \ 



THE IRON CROWN 289 

Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, 
German Kaisers by the score, 
And at last poor King Umberto, 
Basely slain at Monza's door! 

Since that coronet was fashioned 

Fifteen centuries have passed 

O'er the castle by Lake Como, 

Where the good queen breathed her last; 

But the Crown is still at Monza, 

And its iron basic line 

Tells the World of human glory 

And the death of the Divine. 



CONTRASTS 

The wind is roaring down the lake, 

The clear, cold moon rides high, 

The mountains, crystal to their crests, 

Indent the starlit sky; 

The wild sea beats my garden-wall, 

And all its peace transforms ; 

Dear Heart, how different is the lake 

When swept by Alpine storms ! 

My soul to-night is dark and sad 
From proofs of hate displayed, 
From envy and rapacity, 
And kindness ill-repaid; 
The baseness of humanity 
Hath spoiled a cherished dream ; 
Dear Heart, how different is the lake 
When Evil reigns supreme! 

The gale hath blown itself to rest, 
The sun turns all to gold, 
Once more the crystal mountain-sides 
A waveless plain enfold; 






CONTRASTS 291 

And some will laugh, and lightly say 
The storm hath left no stain, 
But in my park one perfect rose 
Will never bloom again ! 



IN MY PERGOLA 

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, 
I watch the flush of morning rise, 
While birds and flowers once more wake, 
To share with me my paradise. 



Within this waveless bay of rest 
The Alpine winds contend no more, 
But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast. 
And sink to silence on its shore. 



The breath of dawn descends the hills, 
And round me, as I greet the day, 
I hear the lilt of laughing rills 
And songs of fountains at their play. 

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling 
Athwart the trellised path I tread, 
And incense-breathing roses swing 
Their pendent censers o'er my head. 



IN MY PERGOLA 293 

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled 
This arbor, roofed with cups of gold? 
What Eastern casket ever held 
The perfume which their leaves unfold? 

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, 
And touch my lips with odors sweet ! 
Enfold me in your ardent glow, 
While petals flutter to my feet ! 

Let, for to-day, the dream remain 
That life is rose-hued, like this aisle, — 
A fragrant pathway, free from pain, 
With every sun-kissed flower a smile! 



EVANESCENCE 

Passing ships ! Passing ships ! 
The white foam sparkling at your lips 
And countless jewels in your wake 
Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, 
While on your decks a smiling throng 
Surveys this realm of sun and song. 

Slipping by ! Slipping by ! 
O'er waves that duplicate the sky 
I watch you daily come and go, 
But rarely is there one I know 
Of all who at your railings stand, 
To view with joy this storied land. 

On ye pass ! On ye pass ! 
At times I follow through my glass 
Your silent course from sunset light 
To meet the dusky veil of night, 
As swiftly round the curving shore 
Glide faces I shall see no more. 



EVANESCENCE 295 

Sailing on! Sailing on! 
The transient voyagers now are gone; 
Yet though the hills their features hide, 
One memory of them will abide, — 
The thought of their enraptured gaze 
In this the gem of Larian bays. 

Gliding by ! Gliding by ! 
Why is it that I look, . . . and sigh? 
What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn 
For strangers who will ne'er return? 
I would not really have them stay, 
Yet grieve to see them fade away. 

Hail-farewell ! Hail- farewell ! 
Those passing steamers seem to tell 
That all ships, whether slow or fast, 
Will cross life's little bay at last, 
While we who linger on the strand 
Must daily mourn some vanished hand. 



LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN 

From Como's curving base of blue, 
To where the snow lies cold and clear, 
Ascends in steps of varied hue 
The pageant of the passing year, 
As scores of mountain-sides unfold 
Their gorgeous robes of red and gold. 

Meanwhile, where shore and lake unite, 

I see, projected far below, 

A counterpart in colors bright, 

Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,- 

Two pictures of an ideal land, 

Divided by a single strand. 

matchless view, thus doubly fair, 
Impress thy beauty on my heart, 
That, when no longer really there, 

1 still may see thee as thou art! 
Alas, that they should ever go, — 

Those steps of light, those thrones of snow ! 






LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN 297 

The day declines, the colors pale, 
The peaks will soon be ashen gray ; 
Yet, though the shades of night prevail, 
The darkness hath not come to stay; 
And if no leaves of gold remain, 
The sun will bring the Spring again. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS 
FIRST CONSUL 

Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present 
in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio 

Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, 
Rises this reincarnation of Mars ! 
Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, 
Genius ascending its path toward the stars ! 

Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory 
Treated by Art so superbly as here; 
Never a phase of his marvellous story 
Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear. 

Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, 
Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, 
While on his lips an expression still lingers, 
Stamped by a character born to command. 

Hero of history, what art thou scheming, 
Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, 
Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming 
Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth? 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON 299 

All that thou dreamest of paramount power 
Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime ! 
Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; 
Fortune avenges her favors . . . with time ! 

Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, 
Hailing as godlike thy dominant name, 
Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, 
Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame. 

Waiting is also that island of anguish, 
Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, 
Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, 
Facing forever its measureless past ! 

Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean 
Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, 
Millions will hail thee again with devotion, 
Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine ! 

Face of Napoleon, nobly recalling 

Days of the mythical heroes of yore, 

Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are 

falling, — 
Beautiful gem of the Larian shore. 



DAY AND NIGHT 

Twilight is falling on lake and on land, 
Softly the wavelets steal in to the strand, 
Fisher-boats, floating like sea-gulls at rest, 
Glow in the lingering light of the west, 
Far-away vesper-bells hallow the air, 
Ave Maria! the world seems at prayer. 

One more immaculate sunset exposed, 
One chapter more of life's history closed, 
One more bead told on the chaplet of time, 
One further stride in Earth's orbit sublime;— 
Linked to the measureless chain of the past, 
One added day, ... to so many their last! 

Slowly the colors diminish and die, 
Slowly the stellar hosts people the sky, 
Lost is the light on the fishermen's sails, 
Sweet is the exquisite peace that prevails, 
Silence and solitude brood o'er the deep, 
Ave Maria! the world seems to sleep. 



DAY AND NIGHT 301 

One more magnificent pageant to face, — 

Numberless systems in infinite space; 

Once more our planet in majesty rolls 

On through the darkness its burden of souls ; — 

Linked to the limitless chain of the past, 

One added night, ... to so many their last ! 



PASSING AND PERMANENT 

Stately boats, with happy crowds, 

Passing up the lake, 
Leaving, under sunset clouds, 

Jewels in your wake, 
From my garden's sheltered strand 

I can watch you glide, 
As through some enchanted land 

On a silver tide. 

To your eyes, O joyous throng, 

All this scene is new; 
Like a burst of seraphs' song, 

Comes its matchless view ; 
You have traversed land and sea 

For this wondrous sight, 
Which the gods vouchsafe to me 

Every day and night ! 

One long, serial pageant this 

Of supreme content ! 
Every face suffused with bliss, 

Every eye intent; 



PASSING AND PERMANENT 303 

Griefs and troubles slip away 

On this charming shore, 
And throughout a transient stay 

Will return no more. 

Yet beware ! Gardens fair, 

Lake, and snow-capped crest 
For a while may banish care 

From the saddest breast; 
But it quickly, even here, 

Finds the heart again, 
With the old-time sigh and tear, 

And the well-known pain. 

Careless crew, I envy you! 

You will grieve to go, 
But, believe me, if you knew, 

You would choose it so ; 
Leave the lake while still you laugh ; 

Be content to pass; 
Though its wine be sweet to quaff, 

Do not drain your glass! 



TRIPOLI 

Hear the singing on the boats, 
As they halt beside the pier! 
Ah, those fresh Italian throats, 

How they cheer! 
Yet the words they sing so loud 
Bring depression to my heart, 
As I watch the youthful crowd 

Thus depart. 

" We are going o'er the sea ! 
Loyal sons of Italy, 
We are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli!" 

See that lad of twenty years, 
Who is stretching out his hand 
Toward his mother there in tears 

On the strand! 
Should he perish in the strife 
Under Afric's burning sky, 
There were nothing left in life — 

She must die. 



TRIPOLI 3.05 

Yet he's going o'er the sea ! 
At the call of Italy, 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

Now the plank is pulled to land, 
And the last farewell is o'er, 
As the steamer, at command, 

Leaves the shore; 
There are shouts and ringing cheers, 
For the boys are brave and strong, 
Yet one feels that there are tears 

In their song: 

" We are going o'er the sea ! 
Loyal sons of Italy, 
We are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli!" 

Ah, that mother who is left ! 
She is weeping now alone, 
Like a Niobe bereft 

Of her own; 
And at length I dare to speak 
To the woman seated there, 
With the tears upon her cheek, 

In despair. 



306 . TRIPOLI 

He has gone across the sea ! 
Who so dutiful as he? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" Nay, good mother, do not weep ! 
Since the summons comes from Rome, 
Can we really wish to keep 

Sons at home ? " 
" And why not? " she made reply; 
" We have no invading foe ; 
I would send my son to die, 

Were it so." 

But he's gone across the sea ! 
Gone with thousands such as he ! 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" What is Africa to me, 
If it swallow up my child ? 
What care I for Tripoli, 

Spot defiled! 
Did not Abyssinian sand 
Drink sufficiently our gore? 
Must we stain that fatal strand, 

As before?" 






TRIPOLI 307 

Yet he's gone across the sea, 
Who more valorous than he ? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" Have we no great uses here 
For the millions we outpour? 
Are our consciences quite clear 

In this war? 
Are there no more roads to build, 
Schools to found, and farms to work, 
That we let our boys be killed 

By the Turk?" 

Yet we send them o'er the sea ! 
Youthful sons of Italy, 
They are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" We are hungry, yet behold, 
How the price of food goes higher! 
And the nights will soon be cold 

Without fire! 
Who will earn for me my bread ? 
Who my little home will save, 
When he lies there cold and dead 

In his grave ? " 



3 o8 TRIPOLI 

But he's gone across the sea! 
Who so good and kind to me ? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

To the churchyard, near the bay, 
Went the mother in her grief, 
For her soul was moved to pray 

For relief; 
And deep sobs convulsed her breast, 
As she knelt upon the sod, 
Where her husband lay at rest, 

Safe in God. 

For the boy was o'er the sea, 
Whom she rocked upon her knee ; 
He had gone to Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

She was buried yesterday 
With her husband, side by side ; 
Ere two months had passed away 

She had died! 
For one morning she had read 
Of her son among the slain, 
And they saw her old gray head 

Sink in pain. 



TRIPOLI 309 

Nevermore across the sea 
Will he come to Italy! 
He was killed in Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

There was nothing more to tell 

Of a lad so little known; 

He was reckoned " one who fell," 

That alone. 
Was he wounded? Did he lie 
Long ill-treated by the foe? 
Happy mother! thus to die, 

And not know! 

Yes, he lies beyond the sea ! 
(Can it be that that is he?) 
In the sands of Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

She had asked for nothing more, 
But in silence slowly failed, 
Dreaming ever of the shore, 

Whence he sailed. 
Till her face, so wan and white, 
Flushed at last with sweet surprise, 
And a strangely tender light 

Filled her eyes. 



3 io TRIPOLI 



Then for her was " no more sea 
She had found the soul set free 
From the sands of Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 



INFLUENCE 

We know not what mysterious power 
Lies latent in our words and deeds, — 
Sweet as the perfume of a flower, 
Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; 
But something certainly survives 
The passing of our fleeting lives. 



A look, a pressure of the hand, 
A sign of hope, a song of cheer, 
May journey over sea and land, 
Outliving many a sterile year, 
To find at last the destined hour 
When they shall leap to bud and flower. 



We write, we print, then — nevermore 
To be recalled — our thoughts take flight, 
Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, 
And scattering, lose themselves in light; 
For good or ill those words may be 
The arbiters of destiny. 



312 INFLUENCE 

Perchance some fervid plea may find 

A heart to rise to its appeal ; 

Some statement rouse a dormant mind, 

Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; 

Nay, through some note of gentler tone 

Even love may recognize its own. 

Fain would I deem not wholly dead 
The spoken words of former years, 
And every printed page, when read, 
A source of smiles, instead of tears; 
That friends, whom I shall never see, 
May, for a time, remember me. 



LEO 

I made a journey o'er the sea, 
I bade my faithful dog good-bye, 
I knew that he would grieve for me, 
But did not dream that he would die ! 
And how could I explain 
That I would come again? 

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn 
A life-long master they adore, 
Till in his mind the fear was born 
That he should never see me more. 

Ah! then, on every boat intent, 
He watched the crowd upon the pier, 
While every look and motion meant 
" Will he not come ? Is he not here ? " 

At last he merely raised his head, 
To see the steamers passing by, 
Then sank again upon his bed, 
And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh ; 
For how could one explain 
That I would come again? 



3 14 LEO 

I hastened back by sea and land, 
Forced homeward by remorse and fear; 
But no glad barking swept the strand, 
Nor did he meet me on the pier ! 

I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, 
And then beheld him near the wall, 
Though tottering, still upon his feet, 
And creeping toward me down the hall. 

No wish had he to sulk or blame, 
Nor did he need to understand, 
But simply loved me just the same, — 
In silence licking face and hand. 

In silence ? What could this portend ? 
Such muteness he had never shown ; 
Was he so very near the end? 
Ah, Leo, had I only known ! 

For his grand eyes, so large and bright, 
Though turned, through sound, my form to 

find, 
Were totally devoid of sight; 
He faced me in the darkness . . . blind ! 

What could such gloom have been to him, 
As weeks and months had crept away, 
While all the outer world grew dim, 
Till endless night eclipsed the day ! 



LEO 

What had it meant to him to wake 
And mid familiar things to grope? 
To hear old sounds on shore and lake, 
Yet wander darkly without hope! 

But now, his head upon my knee, 
He tried in various ways to show 
That, though my face he could not see, 
He knew the voice of long ago. 

Yes, now it was quite plain 

That I had come again. 

Within my arms he breathed his last, 
In my embrace his noble head 
Drooped back, and left to me . . . the Past, 
With tender memories of the dead. 

He lies beneath the stately trees. 
Whose ample shade he loved the best, 
Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze 
Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest. 



Yet somehow still I watch and wait 
For him, as he once watched for me ; 
At every footstep near my gate 
I look, his bounding form to see. 



3*5 



3 i6 LEO 

In vain ! 'he cornea not ; one friend jnore 
Has reached his ultimate repose; 
Again I see Death's curtained door 
Upon another comrade close ! 
And who can make it plain 
That we shall meet again? 



FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Good-night, sweet Faun ! the dusk is falling, 

The crescent moon is in the sky, 

The vesper bell is softly calling, 

And I have come to say . . . Good-bye ! 



Alas, how often, — for I love thee, — 
Shall I remember thee, when gone! 
How often see the leaves above thee 
Grow radiant with the flush of dawn ! 



Or fancy how thy form is shining 
Against the ancient, ivied wall, 
And think, at many a day's declining, 
How twilight shadows round thee fall ! 



Will those who soon may here succeed me 
Sit near thee in the sunset light? 
Will they, in passing, pause to heed thee, 
And whisper, as I do, " Good-night " ? 



3 i8 FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Good-night? . . . Good-bye! for I must leave 

thee, 
My boat is waiting on the shore; 
May I not hope that it will grieve thee, 
When thou shalt see me here no more ? 



Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted ; 
" Have statues souls? " the cynic sneers; 
But I am happier to have doubted, 
And loved thee thus these many years. 

Behind the form is the ideal, 
Forever high, forever true ; 
Behind the false exists the real, 
Known only to the favored few. 

Not all can hear the music stealing 
From out that lightly-lifted flute; 
To those devoid of kindred feeling 
Its melody is always mute. 

But thou to me hast been a token 
Of classic legend, wrought in stone; 
In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, 
Made all the storied past mine own. 



FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 319 

And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, 
The old-time Genius of the Place, 
Aware of those who still adore thee, 
Unchanged by time, or creed, or race. 

Through thee came also inspiration 

For many a rare, poetic thought ; 

And oh, how much of resignation 

Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught! 

Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, 
Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, 
Thou still canst smile at every morrow, 
For Nature lives, though Pan is dead. 

Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing 
When altars crumbled far and near, 
When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing, 
And worship lessened year by year. 

Above thee still rose lofty mountains, 
Before thee lay the lake divine, 
Around thee sang the crystal fountains, — 
With all these treasures, why repine ? 

Religions changed, and shrines were banished, 
Years dipped away, men came and went, 
But thoi , whatever pleasures vanished, 
With what thou hadst wast still content. 



3 2o FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, 
As cherished fancies fade away; 
For thee the simple soul of gladness,- 
The careless rapture of to-day ! 

Farewell ! within my heart abiding 
I hear thy music, gentle Faun, — 
The wounds of disillusion hiding, 
The prelude to a happier dawn. 



WAKEFULNESS 

Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streams 
Meet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams, 
Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep! 

Sleep, so dear to me, 

Sleep, come near to me, 

Sleep, sweet sleep! 



Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way, 
Striving, ever striving to forget the day, 
Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep! 
Sleep, so dear to me, 
Sleep, come near to me, 
Sleep, sweet sleep! 



By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink, 
Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link, 
Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep, 
Sleep, so dear to me, 
Sleep, come near to me, 
Sleep, sweet sleep! 



322 WAKEFULNESS 

Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call, 
And the welcome darkness that envelops all, 
If no more to waken, then no more to weep, 
Sleep, so dear to me, 
Sleep, come near to me, 
Sleep, sweet sleep! 



VILLA PLINIANA 

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs 

Slope swiftly to the deep, 

And silvery streams from ledge to ledge 

In foaming splendor leap, — 

A broad expanse of saffron walls, 

A wilderness of mouldering halls. 



The torrent's breath hath spread its blight 
On every darkened room, 
And oozing mosses drip decay 
Through corridors of gloom, 
While Ruin lays a subtle snare 
On many a yielding rail and stair. 



There seats, which beauty once enthroned, 

In tattered damask stand; 

In gray neglect a faun extends 

A mutilated hand ; 

And silence makes the festal board 

Mute as the stringless harpsichord. 



324 VILLA PLINIANA 

The boldest hesitate to tread 
Those gruesome courts at night; 
'Tis whispered that a spectral form 
Then haunts the lonely height; 
For he who built this home apart 
Had stabbed his rival to the heart. 

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought 
Amid those scenes sublime; 
Forever lurked within his breast 
The nemesis of crime; 
Not all that flood of limpid spray 
Could wash the fatal stain away. 

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt 

Within that haunted pile; 

Among them she, whose portrait still, 

With enigmatic smile, 

Lights up the mansion, like a gem 

Set in a tarnished diadem; — 

The princess, at whose thrilling call 

Unnumbered patriots rose 

To drive from fettered Lombardy 

Her immemorial foes, — 

A woman, loved from sea to sea, 

As Liberty's divinity. 



VILLA PLINIANA 325 

But now the old, historic site 

Lives only in the past; 

Neglected and untenanted, 

Its life is ebbing fast; 

Each crumbling step, each mossy stone 

Is marked by Ruin for her own. 

Yet one mysterious charm abides, — 
The spring, whose ebb and flow 
Were praised in Pliny's classic prose 
Two thousand years ago, — 
A fountain, whose perennial grace 
Millenniums could not efface. 

Thrice daily in their polished cup 

Its crystal waters sink ; 

Thrice daily do they rise again 

And overflow the brink, — 

Since Pliny's day no more, no less, 

Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness. 

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, 

Cascade, and storied spring, 

Ye are the same as when he loved 

Your varied charms to sing; 

'Tis man alone who sadly goes ! 

The lake remains, the fountain flows. 



326 VILLA PLINIANA 

Like drops in its exhaustless flood, 

Our little lives emerge, 

Swirl for an instant, and are gone, 

Sunk by another surge! 

Whence come they ? Whither do they go ? 

O Roman poet, dost thou know ? 






POINT BALBIANELLO 

From Lake Como's depths ascending, 

With embankments steep 

Stands a wooded headland, bending 

With majestic sweep 

Till its rugged shores, expanding, 

Join two charming bays, 

Now, as formerly, commanding 

Universal praise. 



Years ago a papal Primate 

Built a hospice here, 

Which, from its delightful climate, 

Mild throughout the year, 

Soon became for convalescence 

A renowned retreat, 

Where pure air and strict quiescence 

Made all cures complete. 



"Villa Balbi ", — appellation 
Of the Primate's seat — 3 



328 POINT BALBIANELLO 

Gave its name to this location 

In a form more sweet, — 

Soft, sonorous " Balbianello ", 

Spoken, as if sung 

In the speech, so smooth and mellow, 

Of the Latin tongue. 

Balbianello, Balbianello ! 

Point of liquid name, 

With thy walls of golden yellow 

And thy flowers of flame, 

When thy varied charms enthrall me 

Under summer skies, 

Tenderly I love to call thee 

Como's Paradise. 

From thy base, where in profusion 

Countless roses bloom, 

To thy crest, where sweet seclusion 

Reigns in leafy gloom, 

All is beauty, uncontested 

By a rival claim, 

All is symmetry invested 

With a storied fame. 



Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, 
Which thy slopes ascend; 



POINT BALBIANELLO 329 

Grand the loggia, old and faded, 
Where those pathways end; — 
Noble arches, well recalling 
Mighty works of old, 
Columns which, when night is falling, 
Turn to shafts of gold. 

In that loggia, fringed with roses, 
All my soul expands ; 
Every arch a view discloses 
Of historic lands ; 
Southward lies fair Comacina, 
Famed in classic lore, 
Northward Pliny's Tremezzina 
And Bellagio's shore. 

Miles of liquid opalescence 

Stretch on either hand, 

Curving into lovely crescents, 

Each with sylvan strand; 

While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping 

Realms of stainless snow, 

Whence the milk-white streams come leaping 

To the lake below. 



Many a far-off promontory 
Melts in silvery haze, 



33 o POINT BALBIANELLO 

Many a scene of song and story 

Tells of Roman days ; 

Real and unreal, past and present, 

Make the vision seem 

Like the rapture evanescent 

Of a happy dream. 

Yet this point, so well selected, — 

Peerless in its day — , 

Now, abandoned and neglected, 

Sinks to slow decay; 

Sculptured saints, with broken ringers, 

Line the ancient walls, 

Like a loyal guard that lingers 

Till the rampart falls ; 

Vases, o'er the portal standing, 

Crumble into lime; 

Steps, ascending from the landing, 

Show the touch of time ; 

And its one lone gardener, weeping 

As he tells his fears, 

Faithful watch has here been keeping 

Many, many years! 

Even he must leave it lonely, 
When the night grows late ; 



POINT BALBIANELLO 331 

Then the mouldering statues only- 
Guard its rusty gate ; 
Then no eye its charm discovers, 
And its moonlit bowers 
Wait in vain for happy lovers 
Through the silent hours. 

Will no champion protect thee, 
Fairest spot on earth ? 
Doth a busy world neglect thee, 
Careless of thy worth? 
Even so, thy site elysian 
Still remains supreme, — 
Acme of the painter's vision 
And the poet's dream. 



AT LENNO 

By Lake Como's sylvan shore, 
Where the wavelets evermore 
Seem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of 
yore, 

Cease, O boatman, now to row ! 
While the Alpine summits glow, 
Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long 
ago. 

Where the Tremezzina ends, 
And the bay of Lenno bends 
Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave 
descends, 

On this strand of silver foam 
Stood the Younger Pliny's home, 
When the world at last lay subject to the dominance 
of Rome. 

Here he passed his sweetest hours 
'Mid his statues, books, and flowers 
With a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours, 



AT LENNO 333 

For the city's rush and roar 
Never reached this tranquil shore, 
And his writings prove completely that he yearned for 
them no more. 

Here, as scholar, poet, sage, 
He filled many a pliant page 
With the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his 
age, 

And his letters to his peers 
Through a life of smiles and tears 
Make me often quite forgetful of the intervening 
years ; 

For the beauty of the bay 
And the magical display 
Of its coronet of mountains have not altered since his 
day, 

And the lake of which he wrote 
At that epoch so remote 
With the same caressing murmur laps my undulating 
boat. 

Hence the subtle, tender spell 
Of the place he loved so well 
Holds me captive and enchanted, as these waters 
gently swell, 



334 AT LENNO 

And a vague and nameless pain 
Makes me long for, — though in vain — , 
That delightful classic era, which will never come 
again. 

Since the Goths' invading tide 
Wrecked Rome's potency and pride, 
Something wonderful has vanished, something ex- 
quisite has died; 

And in spite of modern fame 
And the lustre of its name, 
Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the 
same. 

So beside its sylvan shore, 
Where the wavelets evermore 
Seem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of 
yore, 

Cease, O boatman, now to row! 
For, while Alpine summits glow, 
I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long 
ago. 



PERSONALLY ADDRESSED 



LINES 

written for a Golden Wedding, 1883 

Just fifty years ago to-night, 

When earth was mantled deep with snow, 
The stars beheld with tender light 

The fairest scene this world can show. 

Two graceful forms stood side by side, 

Two trembling hands were clasped as one, 

Two hearts exchanged perpetual faith, 
And love's sweet poem was begun. 

For suns may rise and suns may set, 

And tides may ebb and tides may flow, 

Love is man's greatest blessing yet, 
And honest wedlock makes it so. 

" Father " and " Mother ", — sweetest words 
That human lips can ever frame, 

We gather here as children now 

To find your loving hearts the same. 



338 LINES FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING 

Unchanged, unchangeable by time, ■ 
Your love is boundless as the sea; 

The same as when our childish griefs 

Were hushed beside our mother's knee. 



Years may have given us separate homes, 
Friends, children, happiness and fame, 

But oh! to-night our greatest wealth 
Is that we call you still by name. 

God bless you both ! for fifty years 

You've journeyed onward side by side; 

And still, for years to come, God grant 
Your paths may nevermore divide; 

But, just as sunset's golden glow 

Makes Alpine snows divinely fair, 

So may the setting sun of life 

Rest lightly on your silvered hair! 

Yes, suns may rise and suns may set, 

And tides may ebb and tides may flow, 

We are your loving children yet, 
And time will ever prove us so. 



TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY 
DEAD FRIEND 

To my hand thou com'st at last, 
Wand of ebon, tipped with gold, — 
Often carried in the past 
By a hand that now lies cold 
In his grave beyond the sea, 
Many thousand miles from me. 

Faithful staff ! for many years 
Thou didst travel far and wide 
Through a life of smiles and tears, — 
Rarely absent from his side, 
As the light of day for him 
Grew pathetically dim. 

When with thee he walked abroad, 
Every crossing, every stair 
By thy touch was first explored, 
Ere his feet were planted there, 
With a sort of rhythmic beat 
On the pavement of the street. 



340 TO A WALKING-STICK 

Hence, when brought to face the gloom 

Of a way, to all unknown, 

Called to leave his sunlit room 

For death's darkness, quite alone, 

He instinctively again 

Called to mind his faithful cane. 

To whose grasp should it descend, 
Since with him it could not go? 
Surely no one save a friend 
Would receive and prize it so! 
Thus to me wast thou bequeathed, 
To console a heart bereaved. 

Friendship's gift, beloved wand! 

Thou shalt likewise go with me 

To the shore of the Beyond, 

To the dark, untravelled sea; 

Only left upon the strand, 

When my bark puts forth from land. 



TO C . . . . 

Behind a laughing waterfall 
There lies a little fount of tears, 
Deep, dark, and rarely seen at all 
By those the sparkling torrent cheers. 

Beneath a suit of armor bright, 
Shaft-proof and burnished, hard and cold, 
There beats, concealed from common sight, 
A tender woman's heart of gold ! 



To Mr. and Mrs. A. H. S., Brussels 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

Two homeless birds, fatigued by flight, 
Have rested on the Belgian shore; 
And now, at the approach of night, 
Must spread their wings, and fly once more. 



Two others, when they saw them come 
From out the dark and stormy west, 
Conveyed them to their pleasant home, 
And fed and warmed them, breast to breast. 



Dear Birds of Brussels, do not crave 
The long, long route by which we came ; 
More safe than any restless wave 
The sheltered nest of Auderghem. 



Henceforth, however far we roam, 
'Neath clouds that chill, or suns that burn, 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 343 

The memory of your lovely home 
Will make us certain to return. 



For, stronger than the subtle spell 
That homeward draws the carrier-dove, 
Are the sweet bonds that clearly tell 
Of Friendship welded into Love. 



TO M. C. OF ATHENS 

Son of the race that gave the world its best, 
Of ancient Greece a noble type thou art, — 
An Attic spirit transferred to the West, 
The blood of Hellas pulsing at thy heart; 
In homage to thyself and to thy land, 
Accept, I pray, these simple lines of mine; 
To one I offer both my heart and hand, 
Before the other kneel, as at a shrine. 






TO J. B. 

Within an Old World, classic vase 

She blossomed like a flower, 

And made Italian summer days 

Seem fleeting as an hour; 

Then left the antique vase in gloom,- 

Yet o'er its edges climb 

Some petals, with a sweet perfume 

That triumphs over time. 



TO M. P. 

The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss, 
And rails at Evil's stride, 
But Love still holds aloft the Cross, 
And shows the Crucified. 

One, safe in a secure retreat, 
Disdains the maddened throng; 
The other braves the seething street, 
And strives to right the wrong. 

Self shudders at the angry waves, 
And dreams of what should be, 
But Love the sinking sinner saves, 
And stills the stormy sea. 



TO MISS MARY C. LOW 

A thousand eyes, by thee made bright, 

Have read thy cheering lines ; 

A thousand hearts have felt the light 

That through thy poetry shines; 

Thou dost not know them all, 'tis true, 

But they all wait for thee, 

As wait the rosebuds for the dew, 

Queen of the Christmas Tree! 



IN MEMORIAM. G. M. M. 

His letter lies before me here, 
Scarce written ere the hand grew cold 
That traced the lines so fine and clear, 
Which still of love and friendship told. 



This fragile film of black and white, — 
A traveller over land and sea — , 
Is all the bond I have to-night 
Between the friend I loved and me. 



I know not where his form may rest, 
Yet well I know Death cannot take 
His memory from the Central West 
And its proud city by the lake. 



But where are now his loyal soul, 
His loving heart and gifted mind ; 
Do they survive — a conscious whole — * 
The dwelling they have left behind? 



IN MEMORIAM. G. M. M. 349 

Beyond this tiny orb we tfead 
Who can the spirit's pathway trace, 
Or find a haven for our dead 
In seas of interstellar space? 

O silent stars, that flash and burn 
Across the bridgeless vault of blue, 
Ye may receive, but ne'er return, 
The dead we sadly yield to you. 

In vain we urge the old request; 
In vain the darkness we explore; 
Light lie the turf above thy breast, 
O friend, whom I shall see no more ! 



TO C. M. D. 

If it be true, as some have dreamed, 
That all have lived and loved before, 
I cannot wonder it hath seemed 
That on some other shore, 
In former ages long ago, 
Our souls had met and learned to know 
The truths that now upon the sea 
Establish our affinity. 

Heart leaps to heart and mind to mind : 

A look, a word, a smile, a phrase, — 

And we at once a kinship find, 

A relic of those days, 

When we both watched the sunset kiss 

The storied Bay of Salamis, 

Or paced beside the classic stream 

That borders Plato's Academe. — 

Perhaps our spirits met again, 
When Virgil wrote his deathless lines, 
And Horace praised, in lighter vein, 
His farm amid the Apennines; 



TO C. M. D. 

Or else we walked this old, old Earth 
When Grecian learning found new birth, 
And arm in arm watched Giotto's tower 
Rise heavenward, like a peerless flower. 

Enough that we have surely met, 

No matter in what land or age; 

For, if such trifles we forget, 

We share a common heritage : 

And though in this brief life stern Fate 

Shall bid us once more separate, 

O brother poet, it must be 

That kindred spirits such as we 

Shall sail another ocean blue, 

Still you with me and I with you. 



3Si 



Sent with a Copy of 

" Red Letter Days Abroad " 

to 

J. C. Y. 

Book of my youth, I send thee to a friend 
Met, comprehended, loved, alas! too late, — ■ 
Too near the sad, inevitable end 
Decreed by life's inexorable fate ; 
Yet though an ocean's billows roll between, 
And two great continents our paths divide, 
The unseen subtly triumphs o'er the seen, 
We walk in spirit, ever side by side ; 
He on the stately Mississippi's shore, 
I 'mid the snow and roses of Tyrol, 
But in my heart he dwells forevermore, — 
Beloved friend, and double of my soul. 






To 
HON. JESSE HOLDOM OF CHICAGO, 

on receipt of his picture 
and that of his baby in his arms. 



Far from the great lake's pride, 
Over the ocean vast, 

Two faces picture, side by side, 
The future and the past. 



On one is the flush of dawn 

And the light of the morning star; 
On the other a shade, from knowledge drawn 

And the dusk of the sunset bar. 



One brow has the spotless sweep 

Of a page that is white and fair; 

The other forehead is graven deep 
With lines of thought and care. 



354 TO HON. JESSE HOLDOM 

The eyes of the child look out 

On a world all pure and sweet; 

But those of the man are sad from doubt 
And a knowledge of men's deceit. 



To the baby's dainty ears 

Only love's accents flow ; 
Through the man's alas ! have surged for years 

Stories of crime and woe. 



Held in the infant's grasp 

Is a tiny, lifeless toy; 
In the father's firm yet tender clasp 

Is his last great hope, — his boy! 



Wisely the parent peers 

Through the future's unknown skies, 
For knowledge of life has awakened fears 

Of the storms that may arise 



When his darling boy no more 

Can cling to his father's breast, 

But when on the strand of the silent shore 
That father shall be at rest. 



TO HON. JESSE HOLDOM 355 

Ah me ! could the wisdom won 

Through the father's fateful years 

Be but transmitted to the son, 

There were little need for fears. 



But each must tread alone 

The wine-press of his life; 
Into each cup by Fate is thrown 

The bitter drops of strife. 

Forth from that fond embrace 

Must the little stranger go; 
For the rising sun must mount through space. 

And the waning sun sink low. 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE KISS TO THE FLAG 

Ta ra! Boom boom! A regiment is coming down 

the street; 
From every side an eager throng is hurrying to greet 
From overflowing sidewalk and densely crowded 

square, 
A brilliant, uniformed cortege whose music fills the 

air; 
For such a gorgeous spectacle is not seen every day; 
It gives the town a festival to view the fine array; 
All hearts are filled with happiness, and no one seems 

to lag, 
When he has thus a chance to see the soldiers .... 

and the flag. 
The old retired officers, their hats like helmets worn, 
Have thrust them gaily on one side at sound of drum 

and horn; 
The eldest, whose brave heart is stirred by that fa- 
miliar strain, 
Surmounts, with stifled sigh, his chair, a better view 

to gain; 



360 THE KISS TO THE FLAG 

Cafes, salons, mansards alike their windows open 

throw, 
And pretty girls wear radiant smiles to greet the 

passing show. 
Ah, here they are! Yes, here they come! preceded 

by the boys, 
Who imitate in fashion droll, yet with no actual noise, 
But merely by the gesturing of finger or of hand, 
The cymbals, flute, and (best of all) the trombones 

of the band. 
The babies even laugh and crow, upheld in nurses' 

arms, 
And have no fear of trumpets loud, or the bass- 
drum's alarms. 
The pavement of the boulevard is struck in perfect 

time; 
Six hundred echoes blend in one, and make the scene 

sublime ; 
Six hundred hearts are throbbing there, imbued with 

martial pride; 
Twelve hundred feet with rhythmic beat make but a 

single stride. 
United, too, are all the hearts of those whose eyes 

pursue 
With admiration every line now passing in review. 
But when a gallant regiment appears thus on parade, 
A little vain of its fine looks, and conscious of its 

grade, 



THE KISS TO THE FLAG 3 6i 

Each soldier, (since a time of peace allows him to 

be gay), 
Aspires to be attentive to the ladies on the way, 
And stares at every pretty face, with no wish to be 

rude, 
But, then, you know, a regiment is never quite 

.... a prude! 
And this explains why Captain Short has said to 

Captain Tall, 
Despite the order which enjoins strict silence upon all, 



A lovely girl!" "Is that so? Where?" "Be- 
side the window there." 
By Jove! I'd like to know her. She is divinely 

fair!" 
Then both a little thoughtfully move on with some 

regret, 
And now the entire regiment the lovely girl has met; 

Across the broad, resplendent ranks she looks now 

left, now right, 

Now straight before her, but as yet no smiles her 

features light; 

More than one mounted officer, with flashing sabre, 

wheels 

His well-groomed horse, and calls to him the ser- 
geant at his heels; 



362 THE KISS TO THE FLAG 

And makes excuse of some detail, endeavoring the 

while, 
Perhaps half consciously, to win the favor of a 

smile. 
In vain ; the glance he hopes to gain, as hero of her 

heart, 
Comes not; but rank forbids delay, he must at one 

depart. 
The Colonel even has remarked this charmin 

thoughtful girl, 
And gives to his fine gray moustache the customary 

twirl ; 
A handsome man, with uniform whose gilded lustre 

shines 
From clanking spur to epaulette with stars and 

golden lines ; 
He knows how potent is the spell such ornaments 

impart 
To make of soldiers demi-gods in woman's gentle 

heart. 
" The Flag ! The Flag ! " The crowd is thrilled to 

see it now advance! 
Hail, Colors of the Fatherland! Hail, Banner of 

Fair France! 
Hail, wounded emblem of the brave; blood-red, and 

heaven's blue, 
And purest white, — the noble Flag, now waving in 

our view! 






THE KISS TO THE FLAG 363 

Standard sublime, that moves all hearts, as now thy 

form unrolls, 

Our dead seem shrouded in thy folds, stirred by the 

breath of souls! 

The color-bearer, young- as Hope, and still a charm- 
ing boy, 

In rhythm to the beating hearts and symphony of 

joy, 

Sways gently, as he bears it on, the emblem of a 

land 

Whose sons will in united ranks all enemies with- 
stand. 

The young lieutenant, on whose face the standard's 

shadow falls, 

Knows well it makes him pass admired between 

those human walls, 

And that its presence lifts him high above the rank 

and file, 

And gains for him a sentiment worth many a pretty 

smile. 

" That girl has smiled ", the Colonel thinks, " but on 

whom? Who can tell?" 

" It is the bearer of the flag, on whom her favor 

fell ", 

Exclaims the Captain, who then adds, " Great Heav- 
ens ! worse than this, 

" She has not only smiled, but now she really throws 

a kiss!" 



364 THE KISS TO THE FLAG 

The Colonel, somewhat bent with years, sits up and 

swells his chest; 

" A charming girl " a sergeant cries, and tries to 

look his best; 

Each soldier, if a comrade laughs, a rival seems to 

fear; 

The chief of a battalion looks, and makes his charger 

rear. 

While several soldiers thus assume an air of mar- 
tial pride, 

The color-bearer, whom the band has quite elec- 
trified, 

Caresses with a trembling hand the down upon his 

lip, 

In doing which he rashly lets the tattered "banner dip 

But she has seen within its folds, thus torn with 

shell and shot, 

The soul of one she dearly loved, who, dead at 

Gravelotte, 

Returned no more, but sleeps to-day within an un 

known grave 

The maiden's kiss was for the Flag, the death-shroud 

of the brave. 



(Translated from the poem by 

Jean Aicard, 

entitled "Le Baiser au Drapeau".) 



EMILY'S GRAVE 

Idly one day in a foreign town 

In a churchyard's shade I sat me down 

By the side of a little cross of stone 

On which was a woman's name alone. 

A cypress whispered in my ear 

That all was now neglected here; 

" Emily's Grave " was all I read ; 

Nothing more on the cross was said; 

Neither a name, nor Bible verse, 

Nor date relieved the inscription terse, — 

"Emily's Grave". 
So strange this seemed, my blood turned cold 
At thought of a tragedy never told. 
The flowers, the grass, and the humming bees 
Were blithe and gay in the sun and breeze, 
Yet no kind hand had ever strewn 
Sweet flowers, where only weeds had grown, 
And nothing brightened the lonely mound 
Whose edge was lost in the trodden ground. 
At length to the churchyard gate I went, 
And asked of a woman old and bent, 



366 EMILY'S GRAVE 

" Who was the girl, whose cross of stone 
Bears nothing save these words alone, — 

' Emily's Grave ' ? 
" Alas ! " she answered, " many a year 
Hath passed since I beheld her bier; 
She was young, and came from a humble nest, 
And credulous too, like all the rest; 
So a stranger met her here one day 
And caught her in his net straightway. 
He said he was rich, and she should shine 
Like a queen in his castle by the Rhine, 
And, winning her love, he took her hence 
To where she found it was all pretence. 
He had basely lied to the simple maid, 
And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed, 
Abandoned her; then home once more 
She came, to sink at her mother's door. 
Of shame and grief she was quickly dead, 
For here she could no more lift her head; 
And her mother, wishing to efface 
All memory of her child's disgrace, 
Reared that small cross, to which she gave 
The title only, — ' Emily's Grave ' ". 

(From the German.) 



SERENADE TO NINON 

Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading? 

Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day; 

How dost thou live, still deaf to Love's sweet plead- 
ing? 

To-night's fair rose to-morrow fades away. 

To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost ! 

What! Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be 

lost? 

Canst travel without book? In silence march to 

strife ? 

What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk 

of life? 

I for a little love would give my latest breath ; 

And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death ! 

What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn, 

If from another's life our own heart's life be drawn? 

O youthful flowers, unfold! If blown o'er Death's 

cold stream, 

This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream; 

And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above, 

You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love! 

(From the French 

of Alfred de Musset.) 



THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE 

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, 
Why are thy plumes so red? 
" In part because I rest 
On Ortler's lordly crest; 
There share I with the snow 
The sunset's crimson glow." 



Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, 
Why are thy plumes so red? 
" From drinking of the wine 
Of Etschland's peerless vine; 
Its juice so redly shines, 
That it incarnadines." 



Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, 
Why are thy plumes so red? 
" My plumage hath been dyed 
In blood my foes supplied; 
Oft on my breast hath lain 
That deeply purple stain." 



THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE 369 

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, 
Why are thy plumes so red? 
" From suns that fiercely shine, 
From draughts of ruddy wine, 
From blood my foes have shed, — 
From these am I so red." 



(From the German 
of Senn.) 



ANDREAS HOFER 

In Mantua in fetters 
The faithful Hofer lay, 
Condemned by hostile soldiers 
To die at break of day; 
Now bled his comrades' hearts in vain; 
All Germany felt shame and pain, 
As did his land, Tyrol. 

When through his dungeon grating 
In Mantua's fortress grim 
He saw his loyal comrades 
Stretch out their hands to him, 
He cried : " God give to you his aid, 
And to the German realm betrayed, 
And to the land Tyrol ! " 

With step serene and steadfast, 
His hands behind him chained, 
Went forth the valiant Hofer 
To death which he disdained, — 
That death, which by his valor foiled 



ANDREAS HOFER 37i 

Had oft from Iselberg recoiled, 
In his loved land, Tyrol. 

The noisy drum-beat slackened, 
And silenced was its roar 
When Andreas the dauntless, 
Stepped through the prison door; 
The " Sandwirt ", fettered still, yet free, 
Stood on the wall with unbent knee, — 
The hero of Tyrol. 

When told to kneel, he answered : 
" That will I never do ; 
I'll die, as I am standing, 
Die, as I fought with you ; 
Here I resist your last advance, 
Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz, 
And with him his Tyrol ! " 

The soldier takes the kerchief 
Which Hofer will not wear; 
Once more the hero murmurs 
To God a farewell prayer; 
Then cries : " Take aim ! Hit well this spot ! 
Now fire ! . . . How badly you have shot ! 
Adieu, my land Tyrol " ! 

(From the German.) 



STREAM AND SEA 

A river flowed through a desert land 
On its way to find the sea, 
And saw naught else than glaring sand 
And scarcely a shady tree. 

The distant stars looked down by night, 
And the burning sun by day, 
On the crystal stream, so pure and bright; 
But the sea was far away. 

Sometimes at night the little stream 
Would sigh for the sea's embrace, 
And oft would see, as in a dream, 
The longed-for ocean's face. 

At last one day it felt a thrill 

It had never known before, 

As it reached the brow of a lofty hill, 

And saw the wave-lapped shore. 

And it flung itself .with a mighty leap 
From the crest of the hill above, 
Till its waters mingled with the deep; — 
And the name of the sea was Love. 



RACHEL 



RACHEL 

'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light 

Still lingered on the city's walls, and crowned 

Mount Olivet with splendor, while below, 

Among the trees of dark Gethsemane 

And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay, 

As if but waiting for the death of day 

To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud. 

To one who watched it in that golden light, 

Across the gulf between the sunlit hills, 

The city seemed transfigured, lifted high 

Above the gloom and misery of earth, — 

A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings. 

The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt. 

And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews 

Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold, 

Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque, 

But bore it as a captive bears his chains, 

Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft 

By thrilling memories of a noble past. 

The rays of dying day yet half illumed 

A dreary spot outside the city walls 

Where sat, apart, an old man and his child. 



376 RACHEL 

Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stone 
Which once had graced the Temple's sacred court; 
It was the " Day of Wailing ", and the Jews, — 
A poor scant remnant of their outcast race — , 
Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont, 
To read of all the glories they have lost, 
And count their endless list of shattered hopes. 
Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot, 
Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair, 
Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall, 
And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as if 
The historic stones held sentient sympathy. 
Their lamentations ended, all had gone 
To their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one, 
Save these two lingering mourners, who still sat 
With downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears. 
At length the old man raised his head, and spoke ;- 

" Our Fathers' God ! whose all-protecting hand 
Led us, Thy people, to this chosen land, 
Through the cleft waters of a distant sea, 
That we might rear a temple here to Thee ; 
Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine, 
And in Thy majesty and power divine 
Wast daily by our suppliant race adored 
As sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord; 
Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and die 
In foreign countries' harsh captivity? 



RACHEL 377 

Our race is scattered now the wide world o'er; 
Our wailings rise to Thee from every shore; 
Baited or banished by the Christian Powers, 
Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers, 
Like pariah dogs, an execrated race, 
We crouch to-day within our " Wailing Place ", 
Begging, and paying dearly for, the right 
To bathe with tears this consecrated site. 
How long, O Israel's God, shall this endure? 
Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure? 
Oh, speed the day when once again Thy name 
Shall here be worshipped, and the sacred flame 
Of pure, atoning offerings shall rise, 
And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice ! " 

Tears choked his utterance, and the old man wept, 

His meagre frame convulsed with mighty sobs, — 

Pathetic tokens of a broken heart. 

'His daughter crept beside him, drew his head, — 

Adorned with thin, white hair — , upon her breast, 

And soothed him as a mother might her child ; 

Then, when his grief abated, took his hands, — 

So worn and white — , within her own soft palms, 

And chafed them gently with a loving care ; 

Then pressed them to her lips, and lightly lay 

Her warm cheek next his own, while murmuring 

words 
Of tender, filial love in that old tongue 



378 RACHEL 

Which once had rung in triumph on this spot, 
When poets of her race in glowing words 
Had sung their glorious, prophetic strains. 

" Father," she whispered, " shall we now despair. 
When we at last inhale the sacred air 
Of our ancestral glory, and have come, 
Despite long years of waiting, to our home? 
Didst thou not say, when far beyond the sea, 
In our dark days of want and misery, 
That thou hadst but one prayer, — to go to die 
Upon the hill where Zion's ruins lie? 
Now this is granted, and thou hast attained 
Thy dearest wish, with ample wealth retained 
To keep us here from want, till on the breast 
Of Olivet's gray slope in death we rest." 

She paused, and faintly smiled, while at her voice 
Her father turned his tear-dimmed eyes to hers, 
As one who hears soft music with delight. 
The sunset glow fell full upon her face, — 
A rich, dark oval, crowned with raven hair; 
Her lustrous eyes were shrines of tenderness, 
Large, dark, profound, and tremulously bright, 
And fringed by lashes of the deepest hue, 
Which swept the downy smoothness of her cheek; 
While her full lips, inimitably arched 
And exquisitely mobile, told her thoughts, 



RACHEL 379 

Ere their soft motion framed them into speech; 

Divinely there had Beauty set her seal; 

As who should say, — " Behold a perfect type 

Of southern loveliness, in whose warm veins 

The blood of good, ancestral stock runs pure, 

Maintained through centuries of Spanish suns." 

The old man fondly took her hands in his, 

And, bending forward, kissed her broad, fair brow; 

Then in a faint and weary voice replied; — 

" Rachel, my well-belov'd, I have in thee 

The only blessing left on earth to me, 

The one sweet solace in my dreary life 

Of fourscore years of racial hate and strife; 

Dear Comforter, 'tis true, our feet now stand 

Within the limits of our people's land; 

Behind us are the obloquy and pain 

Endured in cruel, persecuting Spain, 

Yet feel I still more keenly here than there 

The degradation which our people share; 

Each object here speaks sadly to the Jew 

Of all the grandeur which his race once knew. 

But let that pass; there is another pain 

Which hurts me sorely, Rachel, and in vain 

I seek a remedy; it is that thou 

Hast now new lines of sorrow on thy brow. 

'Tis true, thou art a Jewess, and must know 

The shame which constitutes thy people's woe; 



380 RACHEL 

But I detect the signs of some new grief 
For which the lapse of time brings no relief; 
Thy cheek hath paled since our arrival here, 
And often on its pallor gleams a tear." 

At first she spoke not; but at length her lips 
Moved, quivering as in pain, while o'er her face 
An ashen paleness came, which whiter seemed 
From startling contrast with her ebon hair; 

" Father ", she murmured, " speak of that no more! 

I shared thy coming to this Syrian shore, 

And here shall die, for nothing more I crave 

Than on these lonely hills to find a grave. 

My life, though like a flower deprived of light, 

Hath yet known moments so divinely bright, 

So full of rapture, that I then forgave 

The insults we endured, and still could brave 

Existence in Seville, if thou wouldst stay; 

But in thy absence how could I betray 

My dying mother's trust and farewell prayer 

That I henceforth thy lonely life should share?" 

She paused, and from her lips a stifled moan 
Revealed the torture that her soul had known. 
Her father noted it, and with a sigh 
Of self-reproach attempted a reply; — 



RACHEL 381 

" Dear child, thy love for me hath cost thee much ; 

For young Emanuel, — shrink not from my touch! — ■ 

Was dear to thee ; I knew it, and confess 

That I, to consummate thy happiness, 

Had given thee to him with full consent, 

(Who with Emanuel would not be content?) 

Had not my vow and purpose of long years 

Compelled me to depart despite thy tears. 

I knew the struggle, Rachel, in thy heart, 

I felt the anguish of thy soul to part 

From one for whom thy love was so intense; 

In truth, for weeks I suffered in suspense, 

Lest thy impetuous temperament might lead 

Even thee to leave me, in my hour of need, 

Infirm with years, to sail alone from Spain, 

Go unattended on the stormy main, 

And lay my poor, worn body in a grave 

Unknown, uncared for, by a foreign wave. 

God bless thee, Rachel, that thy noble soul 

Could make this filial choice, and thus control 

A love which, though supreme, could not efface 

Thy duty, as a daughter of thy race; 

Thy ancestors were princes on this hill! 

Within thy veins their blood runs nobly still ! " 

Rachel sat motionless, with outstretched hands, 
And fingers interlocked; her steadfast eyes 
Had hopeless sorrow in their stony gaze, 



382 RACHEL 

As though they read Fate's sentence o£ despair. 

At length she turned her face; the light had fled 

From her young features, just as in the west 

The glow had faded from the sky, and left 

A wintry coldness in the unlit clouds. 

She. seemed about to speak, when, sweet and clear, 

From out the shadow of the ancient wall 

.Soft vocal music stirred the evening air, 

With plaintive passion thrilled, — a proof that love 

Inspired the words that floated into song; — 

Light of the glorious, setting sun, 

Gilding the Syrian shore, 
Ere the bright, lingering day be done, 
Guide me to her whose heart, well won, 
Holds me forevermore. 

Moon, that hath spanned the silvered plain. 

Olivet's brow to kiss, 
Lead her by memory's golden chain 
Back to the olive groves of Spain; 

Back to our days of bliss ! 

Star of the evening's darkening sky, 

Gemming the lonely hill, 
Whisper to her that I am nigh, 
Waiting in hope for her reply; 

Tell her I love her still ! 



RACHEL 3$$ 

The song had ended ; Rachel stood erect, 

Her pale lips parted breathlessly, her head 

Bent forward to receive the words, which came 

Like grateful raindrops to a drooping flower; 

Her slender form was quivering with delight 

And sudden rush of feeling; she scarce knew 

If this were all a dream, or if in truth 

She heard Emanuel's welcome accents there; 

Her heart for that brief moment wanted naught 

To supplement its rapture; 'twas enough 

To stand thus in expectancy, and know 

The idol of her soul was drawing near. 

At length her father touched her hand, and spoke;— 

" 'Tis he, my Rachel; thy sweet power hath drawn 

Thy lover o'er the sea ! Again the dawn 

Of love and hope is kindled in thy face; 

The concentrated beauty of thy race 

Illumes thy features; now alas! I know 

That thy self-sacrifice hath cost thee woe 

Intenser than I thought; I too rejoice 

To hear the music of Emanuel's voice, 

Although I tremble lest his purpose be 

To lure thee, Rachel, far away from me." 

His daughter, even in the thrill of bliss 

Which filled her throbbing heart, yet saw the pain 



384 RACHEL 

That marked his closing words; and, turning, twined 
Her arms about the old man's drooping neck; 



" Dear Father, fear not that," she gently said ; 
" Though it be true that ardent love hath led 
Emanuel to this distant Syrian shore, 
Thy lot shall still be mine forevermore; 
Doubt not thy faithful child, for none the less 
'Twill be thy Rachel's greatest happiness 
At thy dear side to minister to thee; 
For only death can come 'twixt thee and me ! " 

She paused, and hid her face upon his breast; 
Her father clasped her fondly in his arms, 
And bent his cheek to hers, his whitened locks 
On her dark tresses glistening like the snow. 
'Twas thus Emanuel found them; silently 
He stood before them in a dread suspense; 
His very soul seemed poised upon the word 
Which left at last his trembling lips, — " Rachel ! 
She raised her head, and their bright, ardent eyes 
Exchanged the voiceless language of the soul; 
A joy ineffable diffused its flush 
O'er both their faces; yet she did not speak, 
But only clung the closer to her sire, 
As if in fear to lose her self-control. 



RACHEL 385 

At length Emanuel spoke in tones so charged 
With deep emotion that the very air 
Seemed tremulous with thoughts transcending 
speech ; — 

" Rachel, my more than life ! Canst thou forgive 

The momentary thought that I could live 

Without thee? See, our separation ends! 

Henceforth I know no country, home or friends 

Save thine, my love ! I gladly leave them all, 

Obedient to a higher, nobler call, — 

The cry of my whole being to be near 

Thee, thee, my Rachel, now so wholly dear, 

That life without thee is but lingering death! 

Already with thee a diviner breath 

Of inspiration lifts my soul to gain 

The purest, loftiest heights I can attain! 

Not to entice thee from thy father's care, 

Have I come hither, but to seek a share 

In that dear filial duty, and to give 

Love, loyalty and homage, while I live, 

To him, the honored hero of our race, 

Beside whom here I also crave a place. 

Not only do I plead my love anew, 

But also thus lay open to thy view 

The dearest wishes of my soul, and wait 

To learn thy answer. Do I come too late ? '' 



386 RACHEL 

In doubt, 'twixt hope and fear, she raised her eyes 
To read her fate in her lov'd father's face; 
Who, taking her fair hands within his own, 
Advanced with her to where Emanuel stood, 
And laid them in her lover's eager grasp. 
With softened radiance, from their lonely paths, 
The far-off stars beheld their kneeling forms, 
While, with his hands in benediction raised, 
The old man stood absorbed in silent prayer. 



The old, old story, ever new 

Alike in Gentile and in Jew; 

For Love remains man's sovereign yet 

In Eden and on Olivet. 



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